


The Red Stag's Graveyard

by WifeoftheSoulless



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Blood and Gore, F/M, Gangs, Italian Mafia, Mafias, Modern Royalty, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 77,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24032779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WifeoftheSoulless/pseuds/WifeoftheSoulless
Summary: Alastor has been the butler to the Royal Magne Family for over 10 years, but he does more than simply serve: he tortures and executes enemies to the throne. After a year, Charlotte returns from New York with a new purpose in life, but complications begin to overwhelm her when a dear friend, Anthony, comes to her for help. As old enemies resurface and he is caught in the middle of a war between the mafia and Royalty, Alastor finds a ripe opportunity to tip the balance in his favor, but in turn, stands at a crossroads between vengeance or giving in to the beautiful Charlotte.
Relationships: Alastor/Charlie Magne, Angel Dust/Vaggie (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 139
Kudos: 321





	1. Return to Eden

**Author's Note:**

> It's been forever since doing a fanfic, so go nuts with the critiques. At the same time, if you hate this ship, please, with every bit of respect, find a fic with a ship more to your preferences.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wayward soul, I await your sound.
> 
> Wayward soul, return they light upon me.
> 
> Wayward soul, I beseech as a hungered hound.
> 
> Wayward soul, I drink thy blood with glee.

The sun laid to rest, the night descends, stars alight above the earth like sparkling palaces. Twilight sings its beckon, the maiden heart enticed. So she follows, a notebook on hand as she sneaks away through the balcony. The limestone banister opens on either side into a stairway, stone cool under her palm as she walks down into the garden below. Her yellow mane flurries under the wind's caress, dancing with the maze of carmine, of lavender, and white lily blooms. In the veil of night, the crickets sonnet give unto her wandering ear a soft quartet, welcoming the night audience to part from the light of her room to conjoin to the dalliance of swaying blossoms.

The only daughter in wakeful step, a lantern a-sway in hand as she floats down the path. She once frequented this place, away from the manor's keep to pour her heart into her notebook, before she fled away to New York. The garden's halls are the maiden's devices, her haven to flee and wean herself off the day's zealous routines. Deep where her favored gazebo stands near the flowing river, she can see the starlight shining for her in the bubbling, unending movement.

Charlotte is startled with a new discovery this night, a cry nearly escaped. A figure crouches, clearly caught unawares when he twists from the gazebo's center. In the lantern's warm glow, the princess gasps, relieved at the familiar face, her notebook calming the galloping stallion trying to break through her chest. 

"A-Alastor?" Charlotte calls with a slight stutter _._

His permanent grin looks strained, nearly gone from the surprise visit. Standing from his spot, the family butler faces her and corrected a stray from his brown locks. The brown side sweep both too simple and _comforting_ in its archetypical distinction. The hand hiding behind his back is characteristic, his brown eyes like honey drops. Humor returns in their glimmer when his trans-Atlantic accent lifts in amused accusation. 

"A bit late for an evening stroll, your highness, isn't it?" The tone is one she considers hypocritically chipper for the lost light, but the humor softens her recoil.

“I could say the same about you. You’re the one who has to ring the morning bell **!”** Cherubim cheeks puff. While abashed, the sparkle in her eyes reveals amusement. A delicate hand placates the thumps in her sternum, abating her breaths to ease. “What are you doing up?” 

Alastor’s leer grows in the lantern light, head tilted. _“_ I had some chores for the head _egg_ before I could retire for the night.” 

“Chores this late?" Charlotte points with heavy skepticism, walking to his side. The proper distance maintains between them, habitually exercised since her early years of adolescence. The light, soundless padding of her steps pulls the taller man’s questioning gaze to her feet.

 _Barefooted,_ he notes with some mirth, also studying her lithe form neatly wrapped in a robe to protect her modesty. He gingerly turns his body to face her, hand still hid. 

“Yes, but it’s over and done with, my dear.” The term of endearment has been long excused by her father for years, something Charlotte has only known the Louisianan to do since arriving. He was possibly the strangest ‘head of staff’ in the Magne household or any household. He is borderline _unsuitable_ for the straight-laced duties of his job description; of course, that would be true **if** he did not carry them out so effectively! Charlotte could swear he merely needs to snap and the most delicious jambalaya from his native birthplace would be ready in minutes! Guests would leave satisfied and starstruck by his charisma, swooned into his presence. 

A very rare occasion to find him in her secret place. More astonishing still, his ever-flowing jargon is silent _;_ until she was upon him, she did not realize his presence.

Of all places, why did he come here?

“I just wanted to unwind before I greet Mr. Sandman. It’s a beautiful night, after all!" his theatrical gesture directs her toward the gibbous moon above them. "It’d be a shame to waste this sight!” 

The moon gives just enough light to frost the trees with a soft veil of ivory and a sprinkle of silver dust into the river by the gazebo. Chuckling softly, Charlotte watches the willows sway, tandem to the quartet between the stream, the leaves, and the whistling wind. Spring’s symphony blooms a laughter through nature’s growth, and eases the soul grafted by the ghastly world.

"Yes, that’s why I like to come here. Ever since coming back, I’ve learned to appreciate this more. Being away in the city **…** made me really homesick.” They stand silent in the orange radiance of her lantern, much like they are enveloped in a Christmas globe powdered in soft reprieve. 

“Why, that's because you lost your only source of real entertainment, my dear!" Alastor laughs. "Why, even the house was a _grummy_ place without its charming demon belle!” 

“Oh, come!” She huffs. “It’s been years since I’ve been a hellion to you! You should call me ‘angel belle'!” She grimaces to herself, recollecting a close friend she made in the city, one to whom she regularly writes. One known Anthony Agostino.

More well known by his alias, ‘Angel Dust’ for his ‘night life’.

“Actually, on second thought, I’m alright with it…” 

He flips a gloved hand. “Not to worry, my dear. I would not have obeyed that request.” She laughs, not yet sure she should tell him the real reason. Besides, she missed this.

She missed _him._

 **“** By the bye, you could cut your feet out here. The pathway can still be littered with stray thorns.” 

_And he ruined the moment!_ Charlotte’s pout resurfaces. “I can handle a few thorns.” That little jibe only reminds her. “Now, what chores has daddy tasked you with?”

 _“_ Taking out some trash.” He responds with disorienting speed, startling her. “Are you going to be writing in that little notebook of yours again?” 

Charlotte gasps, notebook clasped tightly into her chest as she swings the lantern away, plunging herself in darkness would hide her secret. “So you knew?!”

“I’m aware!” His laughter shakes his body, too disconnected to the soft ambiance in its jarring joviality. “But you haven’t been making your routine stroll as of late since you’ve come back, so I didn’t think you would be here tonight.” He said it so simply, it was _unnerving._

She gapes, her butler now more than half-cloaked in darkness, yet his smile remains. The sight leaves her exasperated. “So you've been **watching** me? And don't laugh so loud! You could wake everyone up!"

“I apologize." The leer tells her otherwise. _“_ It’s just that you’re so fun, Princess Charlotte. I have always thought so.”

She is glad he cannot see her blush. Watching him through the ebony shroud, she can see so little of his expressions, save for his lean frame inflated with a deep inhale, perhaps testing the flora through his nostrils until he exhales. Always an enigma, Charlotte fancies him as a walking caricature who speaks in infuriating riddles. Simultaneously, his most endearing quality is the mystery he forever encapsulates himself.

“...But you misunderstand. I haven’t been ‘watching’ you, darling, but before you decided to spontaneously _blouse_ to the Big Apple, I have seen you come out here several times. It is not the first time I have had to take on duties this late, but one thing that remained constant was you sitting in this gazebo, writing until the light died away in your lantern. I would see you, see to my chores, come back, and there you would always sit, still writing. You never noticed your surroundings **once.”** A strange glint in his eye glows in the dim light, his grin wider. She could almost be certain he alludes to a secret left for her to guess. “You do realize writing like that is bad for your eyes?”

 _“You_ would know, Al **…** ” She gestures to her own temple, indicating the lowset _cheaters_ on his nose. Her mirth fails as she sighs into her usual seat, quite unnerved to the revelation. “You’re still a wacko.”

She readjusts the lantern, his towering form relighting above her. The incandescence stops short of his smooth chin, barely tracing his smile. His mystery encapsulates him from suit to skin, a soft shade of coffee swirling in white milk, but she believes it too impertinent to ask anything of his past.

In all the years he’s served her family, he’s never once given much to wonder, her only clues his love of Jazz and Cajun food, and his allusions to the neon glory of New Orleans. One other thing: He always talks like a radio host, and not simply mimic the style -- He is its absolute embodiment. A talented storyteller who makes your heart race with the trill of his voice and stills your heart at every pause. Every drip of personal history entices the princess, yet all these years, politeness prevented her wandering mind _._

Though in the deepest crevices of her mind, she feels his voice reminds her of something familiar, but she could never seem to remember what.

How is it she’s known him, yet doesn’t know him _at all._ “Golly, but when were you **never**?” 

"Good Golly, have you only realized who you're talking to?" His chuckle is soft, _cheaters_ adjusted by his free hand. She watches his expression. He seems winsome. **“** … Yet, did you not **miss** that part of me, my dear?”

“...Yes, but maybe not the lectures. I get those enough from daddy.”

“Have to be sure you’re happy as a clam, sweetheart!”

As puzzling as he can be, seeing Alastor being, well, _Alastor_ is another thing she was very glad to return to. “I wonder if you’re happy sometimes, Al.” 

His face snaps toward her then, and she realizes just how intimate she sounds.

“Oh, sorry. That was… strange, wasn’t it?” A hot flush of embarrassment forced her face away. 

“Perhaps, but that’s always been like you. Though, you don’t need to worry about me.” He adjusts his tie, the lights of the silver moon and golden lantern dancing between his fingers. 

“I’m always going to. Not just about you, but about everyone.” Mindlessly, she brushes her notebook again, her recorded thoughts flooding back to her.

The things she saw, and sounds she heard when she was walking around the city. How hard people had it just to find a place to be warm. She had always been acutely compassionate, but her heart shattered at the sight of families sleeping in the street. Freed criminals forgotten and ostracized. She even has a page dedicated to Angel when she had stayed with him for a whole night when he had nearly died from drug overdose. Her maid, Vaggie, stayed up with her that whole night. 

_Charlie… Charlie, don’t leave me alone. Okay…? Okay!?_

She can still feel the phantom strength of his hand while he was going through withdrawals, shaking and cold.

_Charlie._

He was the one who bestowed that nickname to her. Out of the blue though it was, she sort **liked** it. As though it were her brand of acceptance as an equal and friend. Not ‘princess’ or ‘your highness’. After a few days in the hospital in New York, she had a moment of clarity. The same epitome which prompted her to return home and attempt to convey to her parents what she has to do, once she can properly word it in this notebook.

“There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you. And if it’s too impertinent, you don’t have to answer.”

"Certainly, dear.” 

“Do you have any friends or relatives that you want to save? Not like from sickness or diseases, but from **themselves**? Like a criminal who hurt people, but if you had the chance to change their heart, would you?”

Fireflies flit between them, filling the black canvas the lantern missed. A jade-green light traced against Alastor’s hair, reflected across his bifocals when she caught the single brow climbing high toward his hairline. Is he confused? Surprised? Offended? Can Alastor even _be_ offended?

“That’s… quite a thing to ask.”

She sighs, head dropped low. “You don’t have to answer--”

“No, I don’t.”

Annoyed, she responds with bite. “I know! I just said--”

“Dear, I meant I ‘don’t have anyone’ I want to save from their lesser natures.”

Golden questions basked in her dark stare, hopeful and saddened. _“_ Not even an acquaintance _?”_

 _“_ I don’t have any hope for any sinner, really. Friend or otherwise. All except for one…” Gloved fingers take his chin thoughtfully, and Charlotte can swear his smile fell away for a moment in deep thought. “Well, truthfully, I cannot call her a sinner. She was truly a saint. An angel, if I believed in those things.”

_She?_

“My mother.”

The pause left her heart beating, once more caught in the storyteller’s web, even if he spoke only a few words. Charlotte found her hint, a single stray of light she wants to leap for before she loses this chance.

“... Is she… still alive?”

"You know…” He suddenly waves his hand up, swatting toward the ceiling with dramatic flare. **_“_** I haven’t the **foggiest** , my dear!”

“Uh…” There it is again, the atypical jubilance of his radio host persona, hand weaving in a fluid gesture toward the garden again, once more deflecting her attention elsewhere. Yet her mind remains resolute to the revelation, now uncertain.

 _He doesn’t even know if his own mother is alive?_ She nearly raised her concerns aloud when he suddenly waves his hand in front of him, as though to end what train of thought began to rise. 

“For now, it is best to turn in. It truly is becoming far too late. You should get yourself some shuteye yourself! Get your thoughts written out now while you still have some light left.”

Charlotte looks to the lantern, the flame nearly gone. The kerosene must be nearly out. “Oh. Yes...” Her shoulders collapse, sorrowful. 

Bowing low, Alastor lowers himself toward her, his gloved hand reaching for her lap before Charlotte realizes, and responds in kind. Gladly, her hand lifts to be taken into his own, the silk gloves soft to the touch when he presses his warm lips against her knuckles. A lean man he may be, but his hands are large enough to cradle her smaller fingers like a baby bird in its protective nest.

“Sleep well, princess. I shall see you in the morning.” The honeyed escape slowly leaves her lonely, a soft exhale suddenly risen with a plea. 

"Hey, Alastor?” 

He had stepped a foot out in the pathway, and it’s the first time Charlotte notices both of his hands are now sitting at his front. Cocking her head, she pondered if he may be hiding something. Or perhaps, she overthinks. On her to her feet, hands cross over her chest as the silk robe danced at her feet, as still and beautiful as a greek goddess.

“Should daddy ask you to pull another late night, I won’t mind if you joined me again. I… I enjoyed your company. It’s just nice to come back to. It gets lonely here. I hope that’s alright with you.”

Alastor now stood from the veil of black provided by the gazebo, his expression now fully revealed under the moonlight, now eyebrows jumping. Even then, she couldn’t really understand just went through her butler’s mind, even when that pleasant smile never wavered. At last, a softness touches the tension on his face when he nods, a hand placed over his heart.

“As you wish, Princess Charlotte. Good evening.”

“Good evening…”

She waves as he retreated to the house, taking a left then a right before disappearing behind the hydrangeas. The beautiful night suddenly feels a little dimmer. Perhaps, she’ll sleep as well. The desire to write down her thoughts no longer plagued her to wakefulness. As the princess gathered her belongings, lighting the way back to her quarters, Alastor finally removed his hand from his person, cleaning something in a handkerchief. Glinting in the awakening spring moon is a knife, thoroughly cleaned from its sticky coat of blood.


	2. The Red Stag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing the butler's lackeys, Veteran Husk and the love-struck teenager Nifty!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Royal Family does originate from England, but often travel to the states. Now that's been clarified, let us continue!

_I’m just wondering if you’re happy, Al._

_Hm_... He had waited too long to clean the knife. Near the river was his best chance to clean off the blood before it started caking, but he had been struck by the ambiance of the garden. Against his better judgement, he allowed himself to be spellbound in the center of the gazebo, the flora to entice and the song to bewitch. Before, he hadn’t a reason to go there, not without his favorite ‘Demon Belle’ to liven the balmy, California spring. There was no purpose he saw in its flourish when the one who adored it most had fled to another state, set in her winsome heart to witness the sights of the most famed American city. 

Without Princess Charlotte, the labyrinthine garden is a wasted throne. 

Another task sent him out into the night, a hunting dog at the whistle of his master, his brandished fangs thirsting for the unfortunate throat of those who sought the royal family’s downfall. The high from bloodshed faded with the bubbling brook, and he wished to simply _bask._ Not to screams, nor the splash of blood, nor tearing flesh but to the _night song_ played from the cricket’s violins and the rolling wind’s percussion _._ Is this what makes her seek out the night under the protection of her kerosene lantern, her only company found in a journal?

Her presence was simply an unforeseen circumstance. The young woman had broken her own routine after all. 

He was honest when he told her he did not watch her at night, but he did not express how this time she _stunned_ him from the momentary glance. He’s seen her grow from an impetuous teenager, her face too round and dark eyes too large. Now, when she’s freshly returned, he noted how her eyes now fit her face and her cherubim cheeks only intensified the youth of her beauty. She completed the entire atmosphere, imperial locks weaving into a cascade of freed ringlets. He half expected her to return with the popularized bob amongst young _broads_ her age. Much to his relief _and_ disappointment, she returned with her yellow mane. Long past the _Dumb Dora_ adolescence, she’s now a curious _wise head_ open to absorb, but she came with a new solemnity.

_Just what did she experience overseas her smile would fall in times of silence?_

Shaking open the handkerchief again, he sighs, wistfully turning the hunting knife in the dim light. He wasted a good handkerchief, and the dried blood steals from the true beauty of his blade. Staring back at his stained reflection, Charlotte’s question rings again. 

_Now why did I have to go and say a thing like that?_ He told her about his own mother. It’s been _berries_ without thoughts of her, but Charlotte has always been too nosy for her own safety. _When was the last time I’ve talked about her?_ Her olive skin, her lofty singing-voice she never allowed anyone to hear but her two favorite men, her _hellishly spicy_ jambalaya. 

_Her tears. “_ ** _I won’t let you turn your father’s memory into a joke!”_ **

He carries on, again silencing the memory. Knife flipped whimsically, he stops at the last door of the male servants quarters. Using the knob of his knife, he raps on the door to his right. 

“ _Motherfucker!”_ He smirks at the muffled shout. Hearing the stomps approaching the door, he about-faces too close to the eye hole. The door swings open and a vermillion-eyed snarl stands inches from his wide smile! “ _WHOA!”_

An older gentleman leaps back, jaw ajar, then scowls in recognition. He is a burly man well into his forties, bushy eyebrows ruffled like an undomesticated feline’s. “Ain’t gonna have much color left in my hair if ya keep waking me in the middle of the night.” He combs back his messy, black hair, streaked with silver strips.

“Good evening, Husker!” Alastor doesn’t hide the amusement. Of all the servants of the household, this is one few who speaks his mind. While one of vulgar tongue, Husk is a thorough worker. _“_ Got another job for you, ol’ boy!”

Husk looks back to his clock. _“_ At **fucking** 12am, jackass **?”**

“Come along now! We need to awaken Nifty!”

“She’s a bitch when you wake her, ya know.”

Alastor only chuckles, walking away without saying anything more, Husk’s one and only indication he either follows or returns to bed -- with consequence. Fuming, the American Scott follows, but not without aggressively gesturing his middle finger to the butler’s back. 

“Finger away, ol’ chap.” He did not have to look back to know.

“Fuck you!” 

They walk toward the other side of the manor, stopping at the first door at the female servant’s quarters. As expected, the youngest of all the servants -- a woman no more than seventeen with a red bob framing her angular face-- gives a hushed lecture.

 **“** Milly, you **must** stop coming at my door at this time! It’ll ruin your complex-- Oh! Mr. Griffiths!”

Upon recognition, she’s quick to fold her hands behind her back and rock on her heels shyly. Husk has to roll his eyes at the puppy crush. She does not see the footman also stands at her door.

_Yeah, ain’t gonna happen, ya dumb broad. You’ll be better off._

“Good evening, Nifty! We have need of your skills, so hop to it, if you please.” He quickly turns, his back to her when she gasps.

“Mr. Griffths!!” Her sudden outburst surprises them both, both heads whipping toward her when her flawless features furrow. **“** You’ve stained your coat!”

She jabs a finger toward his back, careful not to touch him when two pairs of eyes follow her direction. Alastor could not find it, but Husker certainly did! Under what little light streamed from the moonlight in the upper windows, he sees dried droplets of caked crimson. Just how long had he been walking like that! But then, Alastor keeps his hands behind his back, so it would be to Nifty’s keen eyesight an imperfection is found on Alastor’s otherwise ‘flawless’ appearance.

“You need to be more careful, sir!”

“Ah, so I must, my dear. Thank you! Here! Let me drop it off at your quarters. Apologies in advance.”

“It's berries! You know I’m happy to do it for you!”

Eagerly watching him unbutton the double-breasted jacket, she snatches the black felt from his hand before returning in a robe over her nightgown. In her slippers, she daintily shuffles by Alastor while the older gentleman trudged behind. Down the hall where they pass by standing armor, family portraits, and diamond chandeliers, they stop at a particularly _old_ portrait of the first known king. Like King Lucifer, he is also topped with a full head of yellow, with bright cheeks and a sharp appearance. Alastor muses the monarch must have been just as vertically challenged. He drags a finger across the gold-laden frame, pinching behind it.

A few cogs and a depression is created, a barely noticeable seam opened behind the portrait to reveal a cobble-stone stairwell. A heady waft of iron waters his mouth, and the pesky memories of his past are swathed with a _baser_ desire. A new orchestra brews between his ears, pulse drumming and blood _humming._ Charlie’s question trickles to mind once more, and Alastor’s teeth sparkle in his smile. 

_Oh, don’t you fret, my dear. I am quite_ **_content._ **

Dress shoes _clunk_ against the stairway, new memories flooding his mind with an old rush he felt moments before Charlotte unfavorably caught him with a knife hid behind his back. Taking his sleeves, he rolls them to his elbows, forearms complexion paler from the slight tan on his face. 

Husk is careful not to comment on the pink slash at the crook of one elbow before it is hidden again. He sighs when old blood begins to permeate his nostrils and internally groans. _Fuck… We may be in for another long night._ However, Alastor is always kind to let his associates sleep in a little longer in the morning than the rest of the staff, as their skills are _exceptionally_ useful at night. Husk’s muscles and Nifty’s thorough cleanliness are without comparison. Once they enter the manor’s dungeons, they pass by empty cells, the dank smell growing stronger once they reach the end of the greenmile. 

_Or ‘bloodmile’,_ as Husk accustoms to calling it.

Alastor pushes open the last door, and the smell would have made the pair gag were they not veterans to their boss’s job -- and hobby. A corpse, once a man, sits laden on an operation table, his chest expertly butterflied open, organs harvested long before. All that is left is his rib cavity, his spinal cord visible in the bloody husk. Next to the poor bloke’s face are the remains of a heart, mutilated beyond recognition, but Husk recognizes the teeth marks, the wide-mouthed bite one should normally relate to an apple. When he first saw Alastor's victims, he puked on sight.

Now, it's just another past time, though the teeth marks are a new. Best he doesn't ask. He looks to the _cat’s_ face, twisted into an eternal picture of horror, jaws left ajar for a last, unheard scream. 

“Well, that’s a surprise. Ain’t as messy as your usual jobs.”

“I’ve found some texts on dissection tucked in the library of our kind monarch.”

Husk grimaces. That was on _him,_ a deserved punishment when Alastor’s morbid interests are well known. He rolls up his own sleeves to the elbows, muscles stretched taught at the forearms as he gets to work. Nifty already prepares the substances needed to easily clean the blood as soon as Husk unbuckles the corpse’s arms and legs. _“What was it this time? Another assassination attempt?”_

“Just some sod who thought to burglarize the manor.”

Husk’s eyebrows bounce, lifting the body on his back. The blood nearly makes him gag. “You did this to a petty **thief?** ”

Alastor gestures to the bag at the floor of the table, a knife protruding from the lip. _“_ A rather aggressive thief, mind you.” 

His unmoving smile is far beyond disconcerting, his tone too friendly! Alastor’s grin never fails to bump his skin with gooseflesh. _Creep!_

“I didn’t know you wanted to be a doctor, Mr. Alastor!”

The family butler balks. “Far from it, my dear! I simply thought it would be a fascinating thing to try!”

Nifty perks, wiping down the crimson table while also placing the tools into a cleaning agent. “Oh, that makes sense! If I’m allowed to say, sir, I always saw you more like a radio host!”

Husk rolls his eyes as he carries the body. _That’s because he_ **_was_ ** _one, numbnuts._

Oh, the veteran is aware. Years ago, when he listened to the radio, Alastor Griffiths was a popular radio host. Charismatic, a voice as lulling as it was friendly, welcoming all to settle in their seats and simply _relax_ and have a drink. Horror stories, the latest news, even mundane instructions, he was the one many callers requested to listen to. _Hell,_ even Husk preferred him to the droning propagandists. The masses mourned when he suddenly disappeared from New Orleans, only for Husk to meet him under unfortunate circumstances. He recognized the man’s voice, even though they met on the streets of New York. Husk chuckles to himself. He thought Alastor looked so ordinary, he almost laughed in his face had he not been so down on his luck!

Nigel Corbyn Husk was a poor sap of a drunkard caught deep in debt with the mafia. His speakeasy and casino had only days before it would be taken from his possession. The lesson was slower learned than most idiots, given his love for some good hooch and gambling. He originally thought Alastor was a godsend who came to the rescue with a job, money, and influence, but as soon as he learned what he had inadvertently signed up for, he had thought, at the time, he should have taken his chances under some _wop_ hitmen. He was shocked to find he worked under the royal family then. 

However, that’s all he really knew.

Alastor waved a hand at Nifty’s comment. “So, I’ve been told, my dear!”

"Why haven’t you considered working as one?” Husk stops at the door which would lead to the lower levels of the dungeons, turning tensely to Nifty. _Shut_ ** _up!_** He wanted to scream! 

“Too many responsibilities here, I'm afraid, but don’t let me distract you, hm? I’ve got to awaken the rest of the staff tomorrow morning.” Husk didn’t hear any sort of inflection in the family butler’s tone, and he breathed when left them to the mess as he wandered out of the dungeon. "Bonne nuit!" 

The _Dumb Dora_ sighed dreamily, but Husk releases a relieved sigh. Alastor insisted once never to ask questions when he brought up the same issue. There was a choking change in the air when Alastor turned that ever-present smile in his direction. He looked like a shark then, ready to bite his head clean off. He learned then. He might not have reacted similarly when Nifty asked ( _Fucker!),_ but _like hell_ if he isn’t going to have a word with the broad! 

Much to the old veteran's oblivion, Alastor had been too busy in his thoughts, mind buzzing with the conversation he had with the corpse before he ripped out his heart. One that still tingled him with anticipation as he went upstairs to turn in for the night. Oh, it was _delicious,_ seeing the man squirm to his last breath from the scalpel. 

_________________________________

“ **WHY DO YOU SERVE THESE FUCKERS!! YER A MULATTO, JUST LIKE ME!!** ”

Alastor roughly took the burglar’s face, fingers crushing his jaw open to force his eyes to his captor. His _executioner._ His smile was so pleasant. So untouched of offense. Like he just had the best morning coffee! 

“Now, no need to be so vulgar. These people gave me a job, a roof over my head, food for my belly, let me indulge in my hobbies. Plus, you would undoubtedly love Charlotte. She’s the sweetest dame you could ever meet.” His face turned to the ceiling, a clean hand tapping his cheek. Just the thought this little goon possibly taking a gander of the princess, however brief, did not bode well. _“Actually, on second thought, vermin like you don’t deserve to even **look** at her.” _ He said conversationally, like an exchange with a friend he was not currently disemboweling _._ “But I’ll let you in on a secret, my good fellow.”

His hand reached forward, the burglar gasping and crying when he watched, _felt,_ those fingers dive between his ribs and navigated through his lungs.

“ **No! NO, MOTHER MARY, PLEASE!! PLEASE, STOP!!”** His head threw back, body convulsing with agonized terror. But Alastor’s nails dug deeper into his cheeks, forcing his attention back. His smile was maniacal, stretched across his face like a gator’s. A _demon’s_ smile!

“ _Once I get bored of them, they’ll be next! After all, a wild animal can only be domesticated for so long until its instincts take over.”_

Fingers clamp tightly to the vital muscle, fingers clawed through vessel and artery until it perfectly fits perfectly into his palm. The man gasps, squirming violently, desperately appealing to whatever humanity is left in his captor. All amounting to nothing but laughter at the power he had over the weak. 

**RRRIIIIIIPP!!!**

**"AAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"**

_________________________________

He can still hear the clean **rip** of gore and tendon, the wet splash of blood; gleefully, he watched the life fade from his eyes, his jaw left ajar in Alastor’s grip. Oh, there was something _so_ very intoxicating about holding his beating heart in his hand; like the last of his soul was left in the muscle, and the butler ate the last of it when he bit into pulsing flesh. The high, however, was strangely robbed when he spoke with the princess, albeit inadvertently; Not robbed in a way he was ready to attack due to withdrawal, but instead, he had a leveling that made the descent more pleasant than the spike of the euphoric killing. _Curious._

But then, she _had_ been gone for a year. Charlotte is pleasant, a spitfire held in the bosom of a charitable maiden. As shy as she is bold, as gentle as she is strong. None of this is new, however. 

_I’m just wondering if you’re happy, Al._

As he enters his quarters, he took up his novel, dispelling the question from his mind. He is _content._ Until boredom forces his hand, he is content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing some 1920s slang!
> 
> Cat: man
> 
> Berries: good
> 
> Dumb Dora: dumb woman
> 
> Wise-head: smart
> 
> dame: woman
> 
> Wop: racial slur for Italians.
> 
> hooch: boot-legged alcohol
> 
> Mulatto: person of mixed descent, especially pertaining to white and black parents (Alastor is half-french, so his tan is only slight)
> 
> Broad: Woman
> 
> goon: mafia henchmen


	3. Jagged Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte brings up her experiences in New York, and is given a bargain to consider.

Tresses cast Brazillian chaos, a flood of rich chocolate weaved by Mother Mary’s matriarchal skill. Aloft, a burnished stare of a single earth muses its silent thoughts, a modest bosom steadily rhythmic with each breath. Vagetha has a habit of waking an hour, maybe two, before the sun winked its golden rods through her window sill. At the waking dawn’s freedom, her mind flees before routines reign its frolick. As invasive pinks dash her ceiling with the sun’s rising tide, a nervous tightness overtakes.

Today, Charlotte requests her support at breakfast. Though she can do little, the princess was fervent Vagatha’s stalwart presence urges an inspired confidence to speak frankly to her parents. New York was a revelation which expanded her narrow world, rainbows warped into the bruised knees of beggars and abandoned addicts. Her mind wanders to the _ethel_ back in New York, to the day they watched him all night at the _charity_. His face slick with sweat and streaked with watered eyeliner. Deathly cold hands quaked in Charlotte’s grip, his blond hair a briar patch. Charlotte wept in her maid’s arms in fear her friend was not going to awaken come morning, and Vagatha remembered silent prayers from childhood offered life from her lips.

Angel’s tired sass had been the final straw for ‘ _Vags’ (she still chuckles at the nicknames he gave the both of them),_ and she shed a tear or two while Charlotte flew into his chest, beside herself. While rightfully embarrassed, the sight sobered the night-walker. Vagatha may not have the highest hopes for _dope-fiends_ as he _,_ but she was hopeful the sight of Charlotte’s haggard appearance was the seed he needed to reconsider his life decisions. 

She’s not optimistic, but still hopes he’s well. To her left, she sees his recent letter to her on the nightstand, opened and weighted by a white shell from her _Papa_. She reaches out, ready to read it for possibly the seventh time since its arrival two days ago. 

_Ding-a-ling-a-ling!!_

“Ugh…” _Or not._ First to awaken or not, the morning bell is an annoyance all the same. Especially, when the ringer is _him._ She’s quick to dress, her routine as practiced as a winded toy ballerina, diligence fed by her love for her employers, with that bitter drop of _spite_ as well against that _insufferable butler_. Finalizing her uniform with her eyepatch, she pins back her long, brown hair into a bun as she rushes to her door before the conclusive morning knock.

She swings the door open, lips curled smugly when Alastor freezes in place, knuckles hovering midair. Quick to clasp her hands before her, she curtsies habitually.

“Mr. Griffths.”

That weird smile lifts, suspiciously smug. Then he proceeds to lightly knock her forehead. She gapes.

“Vagatha.” 

He takes a big step back, wisely distancing himself from the swat of her hand. Her earthen skin twists into the tiniest of grimaces, but Alastor only bows. 

“Feisty as ever, my dear.”

“And you’re just as annoying!”

He chuckles, straightened to his towering height. “Vaggie, have I ever told you I absolutely adore that cheek of yours?”

“Save it, sir.” Quickly, she strives past to the stairway for the third floor. She can still feel his smile bore into her back, but she adamantly keeps her attention to her destination aboveground.

“Vaggie, my dear?”

She clenches her teeth, sight down from the banister. Mirth gleams in his eyes when he lifts his finger, sunlight caught by his silk glove when it waves like a magic wand -- Or a knife, glinting at the dawning. He gestures to his face, a ‘U’ looped from end to end on his handsome face. His teeth peer through at the silent command, menacingly bright. 

“Ugh…” _Save yourself the trouble._ She pleads with herself when she forces a smile on her face, eye a-twitch.

“That’s better!” A laugh booms from his chest, the sound revitalizing to all but her. He is the _only_ one she did not look forward to return to in this household. In his laughter, she hears an underlying mania, a hidden message wallowed in _sin;_ a legion of devils locked in the vessel known as Alastor. _Go to hell and stay there, you freak._ She continues up to Charlotte’s chambers.

____________________________________________________

A chuckle escapes, and Charlotte quickly slaps her notebook closed, guilty eyes uplifted to meet her maid, and truest friend. Vagatha tucks a wayward lock behind her ear, a sincere smile planted on her cheeks. “Did you sleep at all, _princesa_?”

“Sort of.” Her onyx pools thoughtful, fingers trace the old binding. Frayed and slackened. 

The maid sighs, opening the curtains. The sun’s golden radiance chases away amaranthine shadow, pink furniture given their spring loveliness to compliment the pale maidan’s eternally rosy cheeks. “You need to replace it at some point. It’s going to fall apart. I’m surprised it didn’t while we were there.”

“You and me both.” She sits up, nightgown flowing at thin ankles. Her normal smile is vacant.

Vagatha frowns, approaching the drawers to prepare her outfit for the day. “You’re nervous?”

Charlotte’s head jerks, snapping toward Vagatha with a forced smile. “Oh! Well! Yes, of course! But…” She bites her lip. “I’m confident they’ll hear me out, but you know how daddy is.”

Vagatha drapes a soft pink, cotton dress with satin drawers over her arm, pushing back the open drawer. “I know, but consider it like plucking a thorn from your finger. The quicker it’s removed, the quicker it can heal.”

“I’m afraid the healing part will be more painstaking than the removal.” She takes up her notebook again, Vagatha watching her heavy expression before she stops at the washroom’s door. Prompted, she approaches her charge, gingerly taking her face to plant a chaste kiss to her forehead. Initially surprised, Charlotte smiles, warmed by the gesture. 

“You’ve just about memorized everything you wrote down to a mantra. I’ll be there with you, so if you start to forget, just look at me and I’ll mouth it to you. _Comprende?_ ” 

Satisfied with Charlotte’s nod, Vagatha pulls away to return to the washroom’s doorway. “Don’t think about it right now. Just relax until breakfast. Want rose or lavender today?”

“Rose, please!” Vagatha chuckles, glad to see her cheeriness returned. 

Vagatha disappears behind the door, then her smile falls. Charlotte sits back against the shore of her bed to reach back for her notebook, and opens to the recent entry. Her chest tightens by the newest truth written last night. Not the proposal she intends to dialogue come breakfast, but something that’s come to her full realization when her secret place was unintentionally invaded. Self-reflective speculations once rested on the streets of New York when she was away for the whole of a year to school. Her stomach lurches, cheeks heated with childish embarrassment. She had so nearly told Vaggie what --Who-- had _truly_ been on her mind before she reminded her of the plan.

She tucks the notebook under her pillow, ebony curiosity turned toward the balcony window. Toward the gazebo. 

_I thought I was past you…_

____________________________________________________

Golden laughter bellows to the ceiling while the queen looks to her husband reproachfully. Vagatha, true to her word, had mouthed the first words, and Charlotte was able to voice her desire to convert one of many holiday homes into a charity hospital. Her suspicions were correct: The thorn’s removal did not make for a quick recovery. The wound was a festering puss, and King Lucifer aggravated it with every guffaw. 

Halfway through the thoroughly tense discussion, Alastor had been making his rounds, Lucifer’s cup filled with his favorite cup o’ joe, and in Lilith’s cup, he added her normal number of sugars and cream. His lips are ever stretched into his friendly smile, absorbed fully into his duties. Charlotte nearly stutters at his sudden presence beside her, before quickly resuming her statement when he retrieves her empty cup. 

“Thank you, Alastor. Daddy, unless you decide to try for a little brother, I’m the one who will be assuming the throne. I want to show people I’m willing to make an effort to make a difference.”

“But for the Americans?”

“I spend more time here than I do in our own castle!” 

Lucifer sighs, and Charlotte bites back a victorious yelp. He slouches, a sign of resignation, and much sought after surrender. Brushing back yellow locks, a grimace sets with quiet contemplation. Lillith’s gloved hand cups over his knuckles, a gesture he accepts quickly by the tender caress of his thumb brushing over her knuckles, even as his eyes remain closed. 

Charlotte watches the knots between her father’s pale brow smoothen. Before, their exchanges tethered indifference from their only child, but now, she pays attention to how his mood seems to improve and how her mother’s eyes soften with a secret smile they share with each other. The princess knows _now_ how fortunate to have parents who love each other so dearly.

“Daddy…”

Lucifer’s attention returns to his young apple, his ire cooled. 

“... I saw orphans running the streets, too young, yet they were watching kids younger than them. And…” Her chest tightens, “I almost had a friend die from overdose. Vaggie and I spent the whole night at the _charity_ with him.” She can hear Alastor pouring the cream behind her, “I was so scared he wouldn’t wake up.” 

She hears something else pour, filling the silence of her pause.

“He survived, but… I didn’t sleep a wink that night. That whole time, all I could think was ‘if only I could do something’...”

“You can’t save people who don’t want to be saved, Apple Dumpling.”

“I can’t just sit idly either. I _want_ to do this.”

A small clink behind her, and she can imagine the coffee and milk unite into a dirty cloud under the spoon’s sway. Such mundane sounds she sought to evade the tension. Something familiar to pull away from the storm. Lucifer rests his chin on the back of his fist, and she can see his thoughts across his eyes. The same eyes which she was born, and a similar rosiness eternally bloomed on winter’s cheekbones. 

“On _one_ condition.” Charlotte’s throat tightens at her father’s raised finger as Alastor appears by her side, saucer placed down of her favorite blend before taking her finished plate. Half cream, half coffee, three spoons of sugar. Nodding her thanks, she sees Vagatha round the table, her face carefully masked with neutrality as she takes up the empty plates. “You can have one summer home of your choice. Any of the states, but if you want my financial support, Apple, you will need to find yourself a husband. Whatever happened to that Seviathan fella you wrote to us about?”

  
 _Crash!!_ All eyes turn to Vagatha, forks slipped from the plates to distort the amicable atmosphere. Charlotte is quick to come to her aid, kneeling to take up the dirty forks when Vagatha comes to her knees, alarm in her single eye. Charlotte didn’t realize until she looked up to her that she was glad of the distraction, despite her maid’s gentle quickness to gather the forks from her slender fingers.

“My lady, please don’t!” 

“Are you alright, Vagatha?” Lilith questions.

“It’s alright... “ Charlotte answers her instead, gaze pleading with Vagatha. The maid sees her mistress’s desperation then, and slows. She places a reassuring hand on Charlotte’s. 

_I’m here._ She conveys.

Little good it did, for Charlotte’s heart begins to sink. She couldn’t bring herself to return the gesture. Not when her thoughts turn to the awful few months she endured by that man’s side whom she thought loved her and promised marriage to her. And how for the whole of the year, she had to rely on her friends to help retain and restore what identity she had left. She wants to tell them she despised even _thinking_ about him!

“Here, allow me, ladies.” Alastor’s voice brushes across flaxen locks, warming her cheek and the princess freezes. She didn’t hear him come near! She keeps her eyes downcast when she and Vagatha slowly stand out of the butler’s way, and Charlotte looks to his face. Her stomach twists sadly to find his smile remains, intent on the scattered silver. Something else catches her eye: Red specks on one glove cradled to his chest.

“Alastor! Did you cut yourself?” 

“I caught my finger on one of the edges of the broken dish. It’s but a small cut.” He assures, grin lifted toward Charlotte. He is gathering the silverware in the uninjured hand, and she also sees the three broken pieces of her plate discarded on the wheeled tray table. Did Vaggie break that? 

She returns to her knees, reaching out. “Then please, let me take those…” 

Lucifer stood then. “For God’s sake, man, go clean that up! You’ll contaminate the plates!”

“Certainly, sir!” Such a cheerful response, and he pulls away from the young woman’s side before she had a chance to touch him. “Vagatha?”

“I’ll take care of it, sir. Please, see to your hand.”

Vagatha’s eyes are wide as he retreats from the dining room. She _knows_ none of the plates or silverware in her possession hadn’t broken. Alastor collected only the one. And she knows _what_ she saw. He had been lowering the plate for her to stack atop, and when Lucifer spoke of ‘marriage’ _\-- Madre de Dios--_ She saw the plate _break_ in his hand. He had **crushed** it, and China porcelain broke in his grip like a bird's egg.

 _He’s never broken a plate ever since he’s worked here… And I've been here longer than him_ _!!_ The sight startled her, and she lost grip of the forks until they scattered at their feet. Alarm rings through her mind when she looks back to Charlotte. She is returning begrudgingly to the table, her head bowed. What would have been a true moment of triumph to see a slip in Alastor's impeccable performance was nothing more than a scene from a horror picture show!

She dazedly picks up the rest of the silverware, now more disturbed of the Royal Butler than ever before when the image burned into her cornea like a nightmare.

Worst of all, his smile **changed** **!** Grew until it lost all amicability and resumed something _maniacal_. A _jackal's_ smile. Crooked and **wild.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1920s Slang:
> 
> Ethel: Effeminate man.
> 
> Charity: Charity hospital


	4. Forgotten Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old fire consumes the cobwebs.

He turns the knob of a lone cathedral radio set on a wooden desk on the far corner of the torture cell. Static placates the eeriness of red-stained cobblestone and oxidized iron cages. A single chandelier --out of place in elegance in the grisly room-- beams above the empty operating table. Light traces decayed, gray brick and the lonely torture devices, the teeth of an iron maiden’s bright like a famished gator. Figures stain the walls, black silhouettes grotesquely imprinted as wraiths frozen in their final agonies. Above Alastor, iron shackles hang, rusted edges proudly branded from ancient times. This pit speaks a decrepit tale, echoes silent wailings in an imaginative mind. Moans etch into hoary claw marks of heretical scholars fallen to hysteria, a poet into a bedlamite. Niffty cleans the devices splendidly, but the brick and cobblestone stubbornly clings to faded, bloody patterns. Criminals or innocents, the walls could never tell apart, only understand they now adorn the black ball gowns of old blood; markers established by a brutal era. 

Alastor’s domain. A den he enviously claims with every coat of blood after a well-placed bullet knocks his prey out of sorts. One more twist of the knob weaves white noise into smooth jazz. The walls mourn with the silken keen of clarinets and trumpets, echoes exchanged between the walls to share the oboe’s lament. Satisfied, he removes his Winchester rifle from his shoulder, reverence in the steady placement to the desk. He paced his walk to the drop of the trumpets, kicking up his knees with every sharp crescendo, an whimsical march bobbing with an animated tilt of the head. 

**I walked the streets of New Orleans,**

**With a girl of my dreams.**

**I’ve seen a dozen brass bands play and swing,**

**While little children laugh, dance, and sing!**

Hands tuck into the inner pockets, a cigarette and a box of matches procured. He sways to the singer’s voice as a match strikes the table. The flame _hisses_ to life toward the cigarette, a demon’s shadow lined in the butler’s grin, every movement a jig to song. A few drags of tobacco liquefy a stiffened back before he rears back his head to the trumpets shriek. Legs bow and arms weave rhythmically, the breasted buttons undone until the black tailcoat is shrugged off by the clarinets warble. 

**_I’ve seen old men! Drunk! Singing the blues,_ **

**_With top hats and canes and spectator shoes!_ **

**_I consider myself lucky to have fallen in love_ **

**_With a girl, the city, and the river of mud!_ **

Dancing toward the unconscious body, his shoulders bounce when he adjusts his bowtie and smooths his black vest, then he takes the body’s arms and drags. The bullet wound on his new catch had coagulated, but as soon as Alastor made use of the perpendicular rack on the left of the cell, the wound runs anew, navy jacket stained the maroon of wasted wine. Humming to the radio, he carries the figure fully unto the rack, strapping wrists and ankles to the thick plank. To the piano’s twinkle, he pats down the figure for hidden weapons. Something soft perfectly melds into his searching hand and Alastor yanks back with a ‘Whoops!’.

**_Let me know! Let me know! Where I can go to save my soul!_ **

**_Let me know! Let me know! Where I can go to save my soul!_ **

_Hm..._ An amused snort tokes an aromatic cloud of smoke from his nose. _It’s not often a woman tries to sneak onto the premises. Gutsy bearcat._

Excitement stretches his smile. Women release the most _deliciously_ delicate screams. In a symphony, they are violins to a man’s tenure, rolling in his ear like a thunderous trombone or high-pitched trumpet. A welcome change, truly! A shame her silhouette is ruined by the thickness of her puffy trousers and large jacket. That’ll change in a few tic-tocs. 

“Mm… Ow…!”

“Ah… What good timing! Wake up now...” He gives two firm pats to her soft cheek. Two pretty blues dilate under electric light, a giddiness ignited in the Royal Butler by her grimace. 

“Wh… Wha...?”

“Good morning, California!” He booms! Arms gesture toward all his toys as though they were a sentient bunch. “Please, sit back, relax, and smell the coffee, dear audience! We have ourselves a sweet, little dame gracing us with her presence! And whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

He can hear her sputtering, broken babbles spilled until her words grew into a bloody shriek! How the sounds makes him _tingle._ The clarinets, the trumpets, her shriek!

“That’s an unusual name.” He laughs.

_Oh, this one is going to be fun._

**_I had a drink with ol' Louies' ghost_ **

**_He was our most gracious host_ **

**_I've heard Gabriel sing & play his horn_ **

**_And lived to see the day both my babies were born--_ **

He brandishes his knife, sleeves rolled up his elbows. The blade glimmers with the piano’s twinkle, tossed midair and caught. The girl shakes, hindered by the painful bulletwound. 

“Sit back and relax, my dear. I have to see to my tools. You will be well acquainted with them soon enough.” 

He approaches a whetstone wheel in front of the girl’s azure sight, a cruel foresight in its careful position. He pushes onto a pedal beneath his foot, and presses the knife’s edge to the surface. The rhythmic tap gives stone and metal a voice to join the song. All the while, the _bim_ started pleading. He starts to sing with the next stanza.

**I love Jelly, Fats, fes and king**

**They were the ones that taught the world to swing**

**I consider myself lucky to have fallen in love**

**With the music, a city and the river of mud**

**_“_ ** _ARE YOU GOING TO R-- RA-_ **_-”_ **

“Hey, now!” With a twist of his foot, his knife stops just under her chin, his wide eyes wrongly paired with the sparkling grin. She gapes, her voice constricted in a silent scream. The music continues jovially, but the adjustment of his _diacles_ reveals he is none appreciative of what the _Dumb Dora_ was about to ask. “I take pride in what I do, and I would very much like to clarify that I am no cad. You may live a little longer in remembering that.” The knife waves toward the rubied wound, glistening under the chandelier’s gleam.

Her lips clap closed, wide-eyed.

He pulls away, agitated grip loosened on his blade when an ache reminds him of the stitches in his palm. The sting’s reminder curdles the smile into a jagged smirk when he thinks of _her._ Since that particular morning in the dining room, he kept his distance, even in daylight; busied himself to chores and kept the staff in order. Except for the day he had to give her some mail, he’s kept out of her sight, even when she called after him.

____________________________________________________

_“Good morning, Alastor?”_ He evaded Charlotte’s eyes

_“Good morning, my dear princess! Do forgive my haste but I must see to today’s chores!_

_“Oh… But, your hand! How’s your hand?”_

There was something soft in her voice when he dashed. Something that almost made him turn and acknowledge her. He only continued on, newly gloved hand waved above at his exit.

_“Bandaged well, my dear! Don’t fret your pretty head!”_

____________________________________________________

He had not returned to the gazebo for the last week, despite the king’s errands forcing him outside; Despite his promise. She was there two nights before, and the next night, refamiliarized to her routine, save for her notebook. What rested her lap was the letter he delivered, and her face was deeply troubled.

He sped by, undetected; yet the last time he saw her wasting the light of her lantern for company never to come, he surprised himself. Against better judgment, he _watched her;_ Studied the twilight quilted into her flaxen hair, braided into a golden rope draped over one shoulder. Her delicate chassis was reverently traced in a pink robe, the pink of her cheeks a burnished copper at midnight. 

_Was she thinking of that little_ **_project_ ** _she had spoken about?_ He still remembers how humorous it sounded, and how endearingly she implored her parents. She’s grown wiser, considerate...

_Sadder._

**_Whatever happened to that Seviathan fella you wrote to us about?_ **

  
  


His palm pulsed again.

“Please!! Please, I’m begging you! If… if this is some kind of punishment, I promise I didn’t mean to trespaAAAGH!!”

The knife quivers into her arm. Alastor did not realize he had tossed it into her bicep until after he took a long drag from his cigarette. 

“That’s enough of that!” He says to no one in particular.

**Let me know!... where I can go to save my soul?**

**Let me know!... where I can go to save my soul?**

Thoughts continue by an exhale of smoke, the madmen dancing toward the operating table for his surgical scissors. 

____________________________________________________

After breakfast that morning, he went back into his room. He pulled out his medical kit, and began to clean his wound with some iodine. Voices chattered outside his door, one undoubtedly Charlotte’s, concern laced in her tone. 

“I just want to see if he’s alright…”

He heard the second voice, the king, respond incoherently. He tried not to eavesdrop, but how his curiosity remained as disobedient as a housecat. She was concerned, but does that girl think of anyone else _ever_?

One pair of footsteps faded, the conversation’s concluded, and Alastor returned to his hand.

 _Well, damn. Going to need stitches._

Lucifer entered his quarters as soon as Alastor pulled the rolled bandage. He could only awkwardly press a piece of cloth into his wound when he turns. Bowing at his presence, Alastor didn’t miss the longing in His Majesty’s eyes toward the magnificent rack of antlers above the butler’s own fireplace. He felt a heavy sense of self-gratification, more so than usual. The sight of the antlers still caused him grief, just as the day he asked for them as payment. He was a simple radio host at the time, and a lone serial killer at the time who had a mother to care for.

“I came to check if you’re well, my old friend.”

“Just a simple mishandling of pottery, sir.”

“You worried Charlotte. I just stopped her from coming in.” 

“Thank you, your majesty.” The king knew best of all of his pride. To be seen like this would show he’s vulnerable. He may be a sadistic little man, but one Alastor admires in cordial respect.

“She’s worried for you. I can’t say that’s without merit. It’s not like you to slip, Alastor.”

“There’s a first time for everything! If I may ask for any favors, will you see to Vagatha for me, your highness? I’ll be along.”

King Lucifer laughs. Alastor truly bore no shame in asking requests of the royal head of the household, and the butler **_knew_ **he enjoyed his boldness.

“Gladly, my friend.”

____________________________________________________

  
  


He lays his scissors, scalpel, and piano chord on a small tray next to the rack, falling in and out of his thoughts. Nostalgia hearkens to when he first met the king on the night of a Mardis Gras parade on Baton Rouge, when a young Alastor was at the height of his career. Letters and gifts often overran his desk from adoring fans. The Royal Family had been visiting for a few weeks, and Alastor _just so happened_ to come across the king due to _extremely_ unfortunate events. King Lucifer, he learned, knew the game of _Hunter_ as well. That night, Alastor found his hand inferior to the full hand wielded down by the _bigwig._ He took pride in the little trump card of knowing the man behind the line of bodies of _highbinders_ and _birds_ who made themselves useful to the mafia before they could be thrown in the _coolers_. However, the king hadn’t meant to make himself such a fine catch, truthfully. He had a lure. Albeit, very much an accidental one: A young Charlotte who had just been stolen off for ransom. Alastor, ever soft toward children, simply could not leave her be.

**Let me know!... where I can go to save my soul?**

**New Orleans... new Orleans**

“New Orleans, New Orleans... “ He sang. Ten years since he too danced to the twinkle of Baton Rouge, heard the jazz bands born of the Cajun streets. The jazz on the radio returns the mossy smell of the bayou, and the fishy smell of a fresh poboy. Even the saccharine beignets he scorned is a welcome scent in its phantom memory. 

**It's where I can go ...to save my soul!**

He taps his foot, sobered by the memory of when he first shook the royal codger’s hand to a deal between two devils. He chuckles, humored by the bitterness he still feels burning in his chest, once a full-fledged _rage_ when he found himself caught _._ Even then _,_ he smiled. Up until twenty-three, he had carefully planned his every move, cleverly disguised every murder until one lazy gator decided to reject his gifts of severed limbs and decapitated torso. Lucifer jumped at the opportunity, and clutched tightly to his new toy.

_I had sworn to make you suffer once the opportunity presented itself. Ha! Never thought the fun would last this long._

If not in the last nine years, why do these reflections plague him now on the tenth?

The girl’s weeping starts to grate, and he walks over to her side where his knife is buried in her arm. “Come now, my dear. I hardly touched you.” He reaches for his knife, about to yank when she screams again.

“No!! No, no, no!! Please, listen to me! This is a huge misunderstanding! I was told to meet someone!!”

Alastor pauses. “You were told to meet someone in the King’s Forest? Doubtful.”

“The king? AH!!” 

Alastor merely touched the knife, and the girl thrashed her head so hard, her hat fell off. A short, messy bob of yellow cakes unto her face, discolored by blood and sweat. She is a very pretty girl, with an angular face and cupid bow lips. There is a discoloration of brunette on her roots, and Alastor recognizes the smell of chemical usage in her hair.

“PLEASE!! I didn’t mean to break any laws! I was chased! The forest was the first place I could think to hide! 

He **did** shoot dead two other men brandishing guns while he waited in the forest on the back of one of the stable horses, Dazzle. 

_So, they weren’t assassins to the throne? They were chasing after this girl?_

“The forest is a restricted area, my dear. Anyone who comes here has consequences to pay.” He grips the knife’s pommel, giving it a shake.

“AAAAAAAAAGHHHHHH!! **AAAGGHH!!”**

He _yanks_ it out of her arm, her jacket now fully ruined in blood. But the girl shrieks her next words, prayerfully desperate to reach for what sense of humanity is left in her torturer. 

“PLEASE!! MY BROTHER TOLD ME TO MEET SOMEONE NAMED CHARLIE!! PLEASE, I’M BEGGING YOU!! I HAVEN’T SEEN MY BROTHER FOR OVER FIVE YEARS!! I CAN’T DIE HERE! I HAVE TO SEE HIM! I HAVE TO MEET CHARLIE!!”

Alastor’s smile remains, lapping at the blood running into his fingers. The taste of ambrosia, perfumed with her cologne. Oh, how he _shivers_ to cleave her. 

“There’s no man by that name here. I can’t help you, my dear. Now...” 

He twists the knife until its apex sits at her pelvis, mania’s shine in his twin earths as he readies to cut her open. His hand steadies next to her face as the blade nears her trousers. Presses into the fabric.

But the girl wails. **_“CHARLIE’S A WOMAN! MY BROTHER SAID SHE HAS BLONDE HAIR DOWN TO HER BACK! SHE HAS BLACK EYES AND IS VERY PALE WITH RED CHEEKS!! AND-- AND-- VAGGIE!! SHE HAS A FRIEND NAMED VAGGIE!! SHE’S SUPPOSED TO HELP ME FIND MY BROTHER, ANTHONY!!”_ **

All the excitement, all the blood flowing in his ears short-circuits into a careening _halt_ . Silver blade pauses at the naval, his eyes narrowed and smile slackened. _Anthony?_ He recalled reading the name ‘Anthony’. ‘Anthonty Agostino’ was on the front of the letter he passed to Charlotte.

“Vaggie?” That is Vagatha’s nickname. “... Describe her for me.”

“I only know that she’s some _Pachuca_ and she’s got one eye. I’ve never met them in person. She and Charlie know my brother in New York!” Her teeth shutter, hesitant to reveal more.

“Keep talking, my dear. I can’t promise anything otherwise.” The knife threatens a carmine future, and she sobs. 

“Th… There’s a _dive bar_ near here. He-- He told me to meet them there and they can keep me safe! He wants me to wait with them until he can meet with me! I promise, that’s the whole truth! Please, don’t kill me!! I just want to see my brother!! I… I just want to see him… I can’t die before I can see him, please!”

Alastor has to bite back an exaggerated sigh. Good ol’ Los Angeles, and its underbelly! The music no longer makes him dance, and the dungeon suddenly becomes dull. Should he ignore her? He can still cut her open, but then, the _awkwardness_ on his part would be too much to bear since Charlotte awaited this girl. Questionable sanity aside, he is left with a slew of unanswered questions. Namely, ‘Charlie’. Immediately, Alastor’s mind turns to the only other individual perfectly fitted to her description.

“I’m just taking a shot in the dark here, but you wouldn’t happen to be speaking of Princess Charlotte and her maid, Vagatha. Whom, by the bye, is known as ‘Vaggie’ as well. Both of them recently returned from New York actually.”

He sees the realization in her blue expression, taking what little amusement he can since he may very well not have his fun. Her bullet wound is completely forgotten in her shock. “... Wait… WHAT?! She’s a **princess?!** And Vaggie’s her **MAID?!** ”

 _Well, well!_ Now this unleashes a whole new form of entertainment for the otherwise mundane life he’s had in the last decade. Why would Charlotte neglect to discuss her birthright? Why would Vagatha and she keep this a secret from her parents? 

Moreover, since when did Charlotte learn about the _speakeasy_ near the manor? Another thing nagged at him. This woman was chased here by men with _bean-shooters._

_My, my, my, Princess. Just what little world did you involve yourself with?_

“You said those two men were after you. You wouldn’t happen to be involved with the mafia now, would you?”

She shakes when his knife rises.“... My… my brother and I are related… but we’re trying to run away…”

He already decides his next question will receive an unpleasant answer. “Related in what way, my dear?”

“We’re running away from our dad! Don Henroin!”

The chandelier swings above them in a cold gust of wind, the radio’s next song unheard in the butler’s ear.

“Ha… Ha ha ha ha ha…!” Alastor sustains a laugh behind his palm. _Princess, you compassionate, loving, little_ **_dolt._ **

The adrenaline plummets, and he can see more clearly. His body groans, almost retaliating for the withdrawal of blood by the growing throb on his palm. The shock is so out of place, his laughter only grew boisterous. He walks behind her bound figure toward his desk, gasping for air as he bends toward the lower cupboards, for a decanter and crystal glass cup. This put him through such a spin, he just _needed_ to quell his head with a good moonshine, and King Lucifer is kind enough to give him enough to drown in. He pours himself a glass, _scofflawing_ the beverage in a single gulp. The inferno singing deep in his throat rushed into his stomach a pleasant warmth, his head swimming in a pillow of goosefeathers. _Damn,_ this stuff is good!

“Ah!! Hm… Well… This is turning out to be **very** entertaining.” 

He pours himself another glass ponderously. His thoughts only seemed to overtake him tonight, images of Charlotte, her trip to New York, this Anthony, and the unrelated confetti littering the cobblestone of Bourbon Street. If the little dame tells the truth, then Alastor only stands at the edge of Hell’s door should he cut her down. 

His grin grows again, whiskey rolling in the glass as he stares at his own reflection. His warped face, his perfect facade, stares back with dark purpose.

_I was wondering if you are happy, Al?_

Charlotte's question still bothers him to this day. Silent wrath stares back, though he has been _content. But for how long?_ How long until he can bite the king’s hand clean off for forcing him into becoming a guard dog? He's never **liked** dogs.

Then his heart _leaps._ An idea, A **revelation,** shines! This is his chance to get back at jolly ol’ King! The radio spins in his ear, the _whangdoodle_ a perfect marriage of insane drum rolls and screeching violins. The forgotten oath comes back with a vengeance, when he made the deal with his employer as a caught stag in a bear-trap. 

He thinks again of a sweet, little dame carried off in a failed kidnapping at the Mardi Gras parade. She was such a small girl, easily carried in the burly arms of some _wop,_ most likely a _goon._ Her cherubic features were streaked with tears. How little he knew of the hapless bystander, thought to be just one unfortunate girl to be sold for the _red light district_. To think that _one single_ good quality of his love for children would reveal his identity, his single moment of heroism figuratively landing him on the defendant’s chair. In the king’s very own court; Or really, his study.

_To think you would be as much trouble now as you were then…_

His smile grew wider at the brim of the glass, a small sip taken when his mind begins to _whir._ Not with schedules and dinner parties, or even a better place to set his traps in the forest. No… This time, he considers a _different_ game. He won’t have his blood tonight, but he will, at long last, have the _king’s_ in a goblet. Doom to those who will seek to get in his way.

_Darling Princess, just as you became the end of my career… you will become my tool to end the king’s._

“Hey! Hey, are you still there!?”

He takes another swig, the gratifying sway of whiskey calming the plan boiling in his mind. 

“I never got your name, Miss.” He places down his glass, straightening his vest before he returns to stand beside the bound girl. “That was quite rude of me.”

The girl stammers as she tries to pull away from him, cringing painfully. “M-- Molly… My name is Molly Catarina Agustino.”

“Well, then, Ms. Molly Catarina Agustino! You’ve won yourself quite an exclusive prize tonight! You’re going to live! _But--”_ His hand reaches forward, a serpent’s quickness in its gentleness when he takes her by the chin and forces her eyes to himself. “On **two** conditions. The first being you will never, **ever** tell anyone what you saw here tonight. I will write up a contract with you soon enough. And **Second…”** His eyes narrow, the demon in his blood-smeared smile alight with nightmarish promise until it burns into Molly’s memory. He wants her to remember those heebie-jeebies _forever._ “I will be going in your stead to that dive bar.”

Molly’s jaw drops. 

Alastor presses his fingers up, closing her mouth with a laugh. She is safe for now. Until she proves more useful dead.

“Now, now, don’t worry. I’ll not expose your little coup. In fact, I very much want to help you! You seem like a stellar gal! But please be in mind, my dear...” A glint of honey glimmers in his brown eyes. “If I go and find this to be elaborate _bushwa,_ or you are not truly who you say you are… I will gut you like a fish and string your parts above the gators below us while you still **live.** I’m going to undo your buckles now, but until I can conclude the meeting at the bar tonight, you’ll be staying in one of the cells. I’ll bring you blankets and something warm to eat until I come back for you. **”**

Molly sputters! **“** Bu-- But who _are_ you!? Why would you want to help me?”

Alastor’s brow wiggles, chin raised haughtily when his takes his vest with a bow. He’s quite comfortable sharing his name now, considering it’s been a good decade! My, how good it feels!

“Alastor Gustave Griffiths, Royal Butler to the Royal Magne Family. At your service! And I want to help because you are the princess's friend.”

It’s a good thing his day off is tomorrow. He’s going milk this night for as long as he’s able.

“Now, do tell me which nearby _Blind Pig_ you’re talking about. Los Angeles is known to have several in its scummy underbelly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bearcat- uncouth woman
> 
> bim - woman
> 
> Diacles- glasses
> 
> Cad: uncouth man
> 
> Dumb Dora- unintelligent woman
> 
> Highbinders- corrupted politicians
> 
> Birds: men  
> Bean Shooter- gun
> 
> Bushwa: Lies
> 
> Cooler: jail
> 
> Goon: Mafia henchmen
> 
> Wop (without paper): Racial slur for Italians
> 
> dive bar/speakeasy- secret underground bar popular during the Prohibition era
> 
> Pachuca - Female Mexican living in America (I know she’s Salvadorian!)


	5. Golden Haired Lure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past clings to the heels of the hunter.

“Remind me again why I had to join in on this?”

“Because I adore making you miserable,” Alastor chuckles at Husk’s bloodshot eyes, a _quilt_ rolling in his hand when he pulls the newly wakeful footman to his side, a wide smile squished into his ruddy cheek when he continues melodiously, “and I have a scheme that I am all too _delighted_ to share!”

Husk shoves him off, annoyed the attempt to knock the man off his feet is _gracefully_ evaded with a bounce of his leg and a laugh, his precious _bootleg_ easily contained by the swivel of his wrist.

 _Can_ **_anything_ ** _catch this guy sideways?_ Husk grunts. “Keep that **shit** to yourself, bub. I don’t want to _know_ what goes behind that _conk_ o’ yours.”

“Now that’s a shame because this night promises a new act, my good fellow! But if you want to be a _bluenose_ about it, then remain in blissful ignorance and just enjoy the ride!” He lifts his rescued glass in salute, and the veteran only rubs his eyes.

“I’d enjoy going back the fuck to sleep!” 

He expected the normal routine: Wake up in the wee hours of the night, dispose of a body or two, go back to sleep. 

___________________________________

When he opened the door, he stopped at an unusual sight. Eyes squeeze shut and reopen to properly solidify the image, little sense registered of just _what_ he was stared at. Alastor stood dressed in a grey fedora and a matching, pressed, pinstripe suit. At _fucking_ 1am. All the more strange is the new enlargement of his grin. His face looked ready to rip in two! 

“Good evening, Husker!”

“...Did you swankie up for ‘guard duty’?” Alastor was crazy, but he didn’t think he was _too far off the deep end_ enough to stain his Sunday best. He’s proven himself the stickler for impeccable appearance! So many times to the point of learned paranoia, Husk had to suffer the endless chides if he so much as dropped a dew of coffee at breakfast time. 

“Why, whatever gave you such a _wacky_ idea? No, my dear Husker, I’m here to tell you that we’re going **out!”** Husk’s jaw unhinged. “You remember that ol’ _Blind Pig_ we used to frequent?”

“..... The ‘Scarlet Letter’? You’re going out to that joint?”

“Ladies and gentleman, we have a **winner!”**

By Alastor’s normal eccentricity disturbed by the spiked excitability, Husk realized something’s amiss! Mentions of a body are neglected, or aid needed to set some traps in the forest. Without either of those things spoken of, Husk much rather wanted to avoid the _real_ reason Alastor stopped by his door. Cautiously, he backed away into the safety of his cozy, living quarters where his nice, warm, _safe_ bed beckoned him.

“Now, get yourself looking presentable, ol’ sport! We’re gonna **tear up the town!”**

 **SLAM!!** An angry _shake_ of the room brought Husk to consider whether he may or may not have awakened some of the staff by the crash of the door, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. If that _loon_ wanted to ‘ _tear up the tow_ n’, he could do it himself. Husk was never involved in any one of his hunts outside of cleanup and he will damn well **keep** it that way. 

“I’ll buy!” Alastor said through the door.

Husk stopped. A familiar itch awakened in the back of his throat, a whisper’s taunt planted by the beckon’s black spell. A long, pained, _loud_ sigh answered, his knees hitting hard the old carpet to plop his head on the mattress. One guilty pleasure he has never been able to say no to is free _giggle water_. 

**_“_ ** _Fuuuuuuuck…”_

The Scot threw on some decent clothes and did not bother to gel his hair, managed instead by a cap. He reopened the door, keen to the eyebrow bowed over his boss’s eye. He was _amused._ The gall!

“So, what the hell brought this on?” He yawned, hands tucked into his pockets. “Ya haven’t wanted to go when I asked before.” 

He hasn't wanted to go for a whole year. In fact, if Husk _really_ thought about it, since the princess decided on abounding to the Big Apple, Alastor stopped attending the local _dive,_ and Husk lost the only responsible source who could keep his intake in check off the premises. Plus, after working with the psycho, he came to learn the value of sleep. Alastor turned a cane in his hand, twirling on the heel of his polished wing-tip until he jabs the end of the cane just inches from the footman’s nose. 

“In the words of Sherlock Holmes, ‘The game’s afoot, Dear Watson’!”

Husk growled, an angry bap at the offending cane. Alastor only laughed.

___________________________________

  
  


The establishment has shown little change in brilliance. Scarlet tapestries laced into golden chandeliers heavenward, and golden crowns cascade into velvet prints on burgundy walls. Golden and diamond liquor pour in abundance, their nostrils pierced with the heady essence of prohibited seduction for the weary traveler. Above on a concave ceiling, angels bawd and wielded weapons, and maidens are swept into mischievous sartyres licentious arms. Vigilant statues of archangels stood in the five corners of the establishment, but Alastor has a secret admiration in the workmanship of the taxidermied deer head above the stage where the band performs their current _whangdoodle_ , a softened composition of piano and two cellos with a lone clarinet. Two floors bedazzled by _eggs_ of actors, singers, producers, directors, even their personal drug dealers and sugar babies from all over Hollywood. 

A piece of false heaven for all the degenerates in fancy clothes, knowing Paradise could never be within their reach with all the money in their grasp.

An assortment of apple mixtures speckle the menu, with red apples filling small baskets in each booth and the mahogany bar, polished into mirrored perfection; An homage to the biggest investor of the speakeasy: The Royal Family, and straight from their family orchard. Charlotte’s choice of rendezvous could’ve been a _little_ more creative, but then, Alastor has to applaud his princess for the secrecy she’s managed to keep. 

A hot coffee and a large _stout_ is delivered to Husk. He knows they might be there a while, so he may as well order something wakeful before _tipping a few_. A quick glance of the mug and his jaw slackens. Steam pipes welcomingly from red-stained porcelain with a gold-rimmed handle, and a gold-rimmed saucer to match. 

Alastor searches the dancing crowds and chattering booths when he suddenly realizes Husk’s stillness. The coffee is left untouched, and more curiously, the stout remains motionless as well. A far off look in his eyes hones in on the coffee mug. One the butler recognizes when he’s either _lit up like a Christmas tree_ or…

“You thinking of the bastard again?” 

Husk’s eyes pop open, before his demeanor returns to the familiar hardness. “No, just fucking tired. I’m about ready to sleep on the bar!”

Alastor chuckles with a sip, smooth descent savored. “You know, you haven’t talked about him.”

“Yeah, because it ain’t your business. Don’t want yer paws anywhere **near** him.”

“I’m hurt _,_ Husker!” He mocks. “You think I would _bump_ off a friend’s own _chip off the old block?”_

“Oh, we’re **friends** now?”

Alastor shrugs, gaze side-long. 

Concerning Husk’s past, he’s admittedly curious. Outside of being a known _boozehound_ and skilled gambler, he’s been retired from the line of duty ever since the end of the war. While one couldn’t say they _drank from the same bottle,_ there is a level of respect the butler has for him. Just as Alastor had kept his own past under lock and key, Husk is wise enough to do the same; until one evening when Alastor had been ‘fortunate’ enough to be the one to _ankle_ the sod back to the manor, he almost staggered at Husk’s slurred speech more than his weight.

He has a son. A ‘cheeky bastard, but a _swell_ kid’, so said the _crocked_ footman before he conked out haphazardly on the bed. Alastor was kind enough to undo his shoes before he retired for his room, but the new revelation stays with him. 

“That reminds me!” Alastor raises a brow under his fedora, interested in Husk’s random outburst. “When I asked what the hell happened to your career as a radio host, ya gave me the scariest look that shaved a few years off of my life. But then a few days ago, when Niffty asked, ya didn’t give so much as a _hoot_.”

Alastor blinks. _Did he?_

“She’s some _bim_ who was dumb enough t’ fall fer yer cheap charm in the last year,” Alastor snorts lightly, well aware. “but I’ve known ya since you randomly showed up in New York! Since yer so keen to dig up some dirt, why not trade me? Given I have yer word ya ain’t gonna seek him out.”

Alastor shrugs, wordlessly agreeing. An easy deal. He doesn’t have any reason he’d want to kill, let alone seek out, Husk’s offspring. Besides, he _adores_ children.

“Why’d ya decide to ditch the radio? Ya were the fucking debutante of New Orleans, now yer workin’ fer the literal kingpin and dragged me along with ya!”

Bourbon sipped ponderously, his brown eyes squint. “How long ago did you ask me, chap?”

“Mmm…” He sips his coffee, head falling back thoughtfully. “About… three years after ya gave me this job?”

“Husker, you’re blaming me for something I did _seven_ years ago? Seems a sort moot, doesn’t it?”

Husk raises a brow, nose wrinkled with a tint of embarrassed red on his unshaven cheeks. “Look, ya want t’ tell me, or not?”

Alastor leans back into the bar. While vigilant for his prey, he’s mindful enough to mull his answer. In fact, he’s actually kind of relieved the prickly man is bold enough to ask. 

“Well, our gracious king fired his last butler and liked me so much, he gave me the job on the spot.” His smile turns smug. Husk narrows his eyes. Suffices to say he is _not_ surprised at the cryptic answer. 

“That it? Ya got bored and so you decided to say ‘fuck all’ and jump ship when he offered the job?”

“Well…” His head tilts aloft, the brim hiding his eyes. “Not quite to _that_ degree. Did you hear my last broadcast before I _bloused_?”

“Naw. Didn’t make it a habit, so I happened to miss that one. Figured ya had yer reasons.“ He shrugs, picking up the mug. “Now, it’s different. By the way, the next guy sucked.”

A proud laugh. “But of course! I’m one of a kind! Though, yes, I had my reasons. This reason actually… Well, let’s just say I saved a damsel in distress.”

“‘Saved a damsel’. You. That’s--”

“Admirable, I know.” 

“I was gonna say _horseshit.”_

“Oh, no, dear Husker.” He gestures a finger from his glass, hat tipped up to show his eyebrows lifted to their highest peak, eyes lidded mischievously. “I’ve laid to waste many a _trouble boy,_ but an innocent child? Heaven forbid it!” He scoffs. “And who else could this innocent child have been but the very child of our own employer!”

Husk’s rears back. For a moment he thinks he _isn’t_ such a mindless killer, but a swift memory of the half-eaten heart quickly returns Alastor to his categorized ‘psycho’ in Husk’s mind.”

“Blondie? Yer serious? What’d ya have to save her _for?_ ” 

“Oh, Husker, don’t you understand the mind of the peasant folk? It was only to make a quick buck. Or in this case, it was the mafia playing dirty. I happened to stride by while enjoying myself to the lights and floats of the Mardis Gras parade in Baton Rouge when I saw this weeping child taken up in the arms of a man who clearly wasn’t her father. You can guess what happened next.”

“You butchered him.”

“Them! There were two, and only in the best way I knew to punish such scoundrels!” 

Husk shivers. Did Charlotte see him kill the _goons_? Or was she spared the sight? He quaffs his coffee before curiosity’s temptation prompts him to ask, uncaring of the scald in his throat. New stimulation resurges his blood, and his brain suddenly relights. God bless caffein! 

“But then the boss-man just… _asked_ you to work for him after that? Seems too random an offer, even to his brat’s safety. You don’t just ask a radio host to drop everything to be a glorified ass-kisser.”

“He liked the way I finished them off. Thought it was ‘appropriate’ for two _boobs_ who thought it was smart to make off with his little princess.” The fedora lowered, a sip taken of the amber _bootleg_. “I’d be able to have my fun while I was rolling in the greens.”

Until now, Husk never had much of an opinion of the king. If he liked what Alastor did, then does that mean he is as much of a sadist? He rakes a hand through his coarse hair before resting the cap on his messy grays. He suddenly feels he’s getting too wise, and quickly, he takes the stout. It’s still cold. Still, that leaves another unanswered question resting on his tongue, and no amount of self-preservation will silence it.

“That still stinks horsefeathers. You didn’t have anything else you were leaving behind?”

“You’re pushing it, Husker.” Cold whips the footman across his cheek, but the room is at a comfortable temperature. Alastor’s glance is not bone chilling as the first time, but it sent the message to cut his losses. 

“‘An eye for an eye’, chap. Now I want to hear your story.” Husk backs away from the finger at his nose. Alastor’s smile broadens as he twirls his front to the bar, chin rested on his hand with open eyes. “I am _mighty_ curious about this kid of yours! I assume there was a lady love at one point as well? _”_

“Ha! Just some broad! I lost the ability to love years ago.” 

He gulps a few mouthfuls of the stout, a half-empty glass returned to the bar. The welcome warmth chases away the lingering faces, the melancholy memories. But one glimpse of that pudgy face and a rare smile grows on his face. He quickly faces away from Alastor’s searching eyes. He can’t remember the last time he talked about him, save for when an amused butler relayed the mortifying news. Him and his big, _jingle-brained_ mug. 

“... The kid, though… shit, I honestly don’t know what he looks like now. Heh, he was ugly as _fuck_ when he was born.” Husk couldn’t help looking down at one open palm. Discolored calluses thickened his skin from the years he carried his assault rifle, mentally picturing a little bundle in his battle worn palms. “He was so tiny, but he had a strong grip.” 

His fingers curl in, muscles bulged when he lifts a smirk to Alastor. But the butler’s eyes watch behind them, expression hidden under the brim of his hat. Husk fumes! 

“You piece of shit! Are you ignoring--!”

But Alastor puts a hand to his shoulder, a soft strength stilling the former soldier to quavered silence. 

“Sorry, old boy… but we’re going to have to take a rain check on that.” Though his eyes hide, his smile grows sinister. Too large, and _hungry._

The footman takes the hint and looks in the same direction. Nothing extraordinary, outside of a pair of the _choice bit of calico_ flappers on either side of a man _dressed to the nines_ . A star of some kind, with a ruddy face and pale skin with a _gasper_ between his teeth. No one Husk can really name, nor cares to. When they turn to be led upstairs, Husk quickly loses interest when he sees two women, both hidden in coats and hats. _In spring?_ He turns back to his drink, barely kissing the brim when he hears Alastor’s tone _deepen_.

“The fun’s about to begin...” The glass stills, liquid only barely brushing lips when he turns widely to the retreating figure. A sinister shroud with the flow of his calm stride. Husk frowns, jealous. For a man the size of a toothpick, he has some impressive glutes. 

_What fun?_ Husk’s chest begins to sink, but he can’t stop himself from watching with morbid curiosity when Alastor walks purposely toward the stairway leading to the lower floor, toward the tables surrounding the dance floor. In front of the butler, Husk sees the two women huddled close together, faces hidden by fur felt cloches over their heads. Husk watches on from above, stout nearly forgotten as he sees Alastor linger at the last step. He turns his attention to the women again, who are directed to a lonely booth with high divider walls. They are hard to see in the dim light; Until the light glints a lock of a yellow ringlet hanging from one of the women’s buns. Husk’s jaw drops.

 _Is that the_ **_fucking princess!?_ **

___________________________________

  
  


Charlotte and Vagatha link arms tightly, an inch between them an _unthinkable_ afterthought. New York had plenty of speakeasies, and by the courtesy of Anthony, they were treated well when they entered. The first time since she’s lived here, they now enter the one near her own home. Anthony had told her there would be undoubtedly more in Los Angeles, especially when near California’s own ‘sin city’. At first, Charlotte did not believe him. Surely, people followed the law and were glad to be good citizens, or so she naively trusted. The gigolo certainly gave her a run for her bills when he told her to follow the exact instructions in his last letter. Directions followed to the last vowel, she paid a copper who patrolled the area. Imagine her surprise when he told her to speak with the _whisper sister_ down the street, a darling old woman whom she knows as the owner of ‘The Scarlet Letter’, a restaurant her and her family would often frequent. Apparently, out of the speakeasies in Hollywood, Anthony preferred this one for the food. The elder woman startled her with knowing laugh.

“I was wondering when you would come around, your highness.”

Vagatha initially protested to this entire plan, the dangers too high, but the princess would not be thwarted. Vagatha sighs, frustrated. Whenever she says ‘go right’, Charlotte would willingly go left simply out of curiosity. Intentional malice is never a concern, but how Vagatha choked when she first read the plan from their friend’s latest letter! She’s learned since her youth to avoid the mafia. Salvadore had its own _trouble_ boys and gangs, and there were days as a little girl Vagatha slept with a knife under her pillow; but the princess, she is willing to play with gunfire if to help others oust themselves from that life! They continue to their table, Vagatha’s pocket knife traced in her pocket. 

Aptly named, the speakeasy is decorated with its namesake tapestries and gold accents, like a small palace! Charlotte can hardly take in the sight when she felt her maid jerk her back to her side. 

“Ow! Vaggie, not so hard!” 

The maid grunts. “I am not letting you wander around. This place is illegal, and if you’re recognized here, it’s over for your reputation! So, until Molly arrives, we are _staying together.”_

Charlotte huffs, yet nods. A woman’s reputation is all she has, after all. “Those drink choices did look good…”

“ _Charlotte!”_ Her single eye narrows into slits. “No bar! No alcohol! This Prohibition was supposed to **discourage** sin!” She angrily gestures to the whole establishment. She was truly disappointed to learn this lovely restaurant housed the wicked to do as they pleased. 

“Vaggie…” Charlotte sighs. She did this in New York as well when Anthony led them into their first dive. “It’s alright.” She reaches over the table, and Vagatha’s frown softens. Taking the invitation, she curls her fingers over the princess’s pale hand, the table’s lamplight illuminating their complexions. “Don’t be so tense. That’ll just make us look suspicious. I know you’re trying to look out for me but please, don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

Vagatha’s hand slackens on her knuckles, and Charlotte grows disheartened. She knows it’ll be a challenge for her maid’s own sanity, but her mind is set on carrying this out. 

“... So… She’s his twin sister, right?” Vagatha fingers her bun nervously.

“Yeah. Anthony said she looks just like him.”

“That should be easy to find!”

Her sweet laugh chimes. Anthony can easily be confused for a woman when he does his makeup. Were he to trade his suits for dresses, Charlotte would be none the wiser.

“You think she’ll see us back here? It’s hard to see behind this divider.”

Charlotte looks up to the second floor, stunned by the marble banister and wall paintings, then to the dance floor beside them. Even the wood looks impeccable for all the shoes pounded on the polish. She looks back from her childish marveling, well aware the divider will be more of a hindrance. “Maybe I can stand up so she can see us…” She begins to move to the edge, but Vaggie rushes to move. 

“No, let me--”

Charlotte already stands to her feet before the assurance can speak fully. A turn of her foot, and her nose nearly brushes a neat bow tie. Startled, she loses balance, but instantly, her hand is caught firmly. Words are lost on her tongue when her arm is raised above her and the room spins! She gasps when radiance whips across her sight, free as the fireflies in her garden, only to end when she falls into a dip. The angels stare down, heaven’s riches above her when she’s held in a protective embrace. _What just happened?_

“Wh-Wha--?!” Her disoriented mind slowly solidifies in her shock, blinking again to see a pair of bright, amber eyes shaded under an ashen fedora and a grin so familiarly mischievous, she thinks she looks at Loki’s incarnate! Her heart jumps into her throat as soon the smooth transcontinental accent tickles her ear.

“Hello, Sweetheart…” 

**“** What the hell are **_you_ ** doing here!?” Vagatha shrieks, but little can pull Charlotte’s eyes from her _butler_. Her mouth gape open and closed, even a shake of her head to correct the image. 

“Language, dear. It doesn’t suit a lady.” Alastor’s grin grew, his sharp nose close to Charlotte’s _button_ . **“** Cat got your tongue **,** your highness? **”**

“Drop her!” 

“Oh, now, Vaggie,” She watches his head turn up, feigned chivalry dripped from his smile, “that would be rude. I’d hurt our fair maiden!”

“ **Now,** Mr. Alastor!”

Voice still silenced, she’s carried upright on wobbly feet, his hands still on her back and cupping one hand daintily. Cheeks flush hotly when she realizes how **close** he is!

“Alastor…” She furiously scolds herself for the breathless inquiry. “What are you **doing** here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Princess. And you, dear Vaggie!” Her snarl deepens. “Whatever were you thinking, bringing her highness to a place like this? Are you aware of the type of folk that frequents places like this?” No true scold colors his voice. In fact, Charlotte realizes with indignation he _mocks_ them.

"Did you follow us here?” Vagatha grits.

“No. I was here before you, actually.”

“Alastor!” The butler fixes his gaze on the princess as she pulls away. Throat clear of all shyness, she speaks clear. “Stop playing around. Why are you here?!”

 _Diacles_ adjusted, he answers with a flourish of his hand. “Well, my dear, I’m here to help!”

Both women stand agape, Vagatha’s narrowed eye now wide as Charlotte’s expression quirks an eyebrow, however hidden under her white cloche. Alastor’s smile only remains, hands signiturely curled behind his back in confidence.

“...What?” Maybe the music is just a little too loud, or the patrons chatter overtake their senses, but Charlotte mind blanks by the confounding answer. Alastor doesn’t elaborate, a sphinx awaiting travelers to correctly answer his riddle. “Help with…?”

He barks a laugh, before one, weaving stride easily grants him position between the two ladies. Slick as a shadow, intangible yet detectable, neither can stop the hands which pull the two ladies closer to his sides when he lowers his head with a conspiratory whisper. 

“Why, this _wacky_ thing you’re trying to do! Princess, you _naughty_ thing! If you had told me earlier you were such a rebel, I would have fit more time in my busy schedule to help you plan this little rendezvous more accordingly!”

“Excuse me?!” Through the last week she’s tried for his attention, but he always ran off for his next chore! She is still uncertain whether or not he’s been avoiding her! Vaggie jerks herself out of his hold, leaving Charlotte to stare slack-jawed. Alastor chuckles when his finger lifts to pop her lips close, only for her to shake off his finger with a frown.

“‘Rendezvous’?!” Vagatha answers. “We’re not here for anyone!”

“Please, darling, you’re smart enough to know I won’t fall for that _bushwa_ . You, above all, _Mrs. Grundy,_ wouldn’t entertain yourself in the same vicinity as these loathsome sinners.”

He gestures to the speakeasy, limestone, gold, crimson, and these transgressors. This place acts in pretense as a refuge for those to indulge in their lesser natures, for greed is most satiated with a good bootleg. Human flesh and drugs is but another indulgence, but how people are willing to lose themselves to the haze of some good _giggle water_ would topple the empire of _stews_ in an instant.

Vagatha fist curls tight in her pocket, rubbing vigorously around her pocket knife as he pulls Charlotte closer, hand resting to his hip. 

“Yes, indeedy, my dears! The jig is up.”

The princess tries to push herself from his side, but he gently grips her shoulder and she pauses in place. Tilting his hat up, his eyebrows wiggle triumphantly as the two women begin to feel a cold dread fall in the pit of their stomachs. 

“‘Molly’ isn’t coming.” 

Charlotte gasps, a horrible cold chilled into her bones. “Alastor…?” 

His smile turns amicable, a brow quirked to his charge when the furious maid interrogates.

“What did you do to Molly?!”

When Charlotte sees his grin slacken just a little, and his eyes quiver, guilt overcomes her for such awful assumptions, but his presence is beyond suspicious. _Did_ he do something to her? Or is he being cryptic again?

“You misunderstand, my dear.” He raises his sight to Vagatha, his tone sobered at her deepened snarl. Or is he _annoyed?_ Charlotte can’t tell. “She awaits at the manor, but she is a little green around the gills. Ran into a bit of a tiff on her way here. I found her and nursed her. They were some nasty wounds, if I do say so myself.”

“.... What do you mean…?”

His head tilts, fedora taken from his head and placed over his chest, smile unblemished when he bows. Charlotte always found his smile warm and welcoming, and she admits to herself to look forward to it each day. Now, she finds it strange; if not inappropriate. 

“This is the honest truth, my dears: she was chased here by a couple of _cats_ from the mafia. Whatever secrecy you tried to keep ended up leaked and now, she was followed straight to the manor. The young miss was kind enough to tell me everything once she found out I worked for you.”

 _This can’t be happening… Where did I go wrong_? She followed the instructions! Anthony affirmed he was careful in the letter’s delivery to remain incognito! So then, how is it his sister was found out?! Maybe, Vagatha is right after all! This is much bigger than she anticipated, and now she felt her jaw tense with the metaphorical mouthful she took on.

“Now, dear, don’t look so glum.” When he pulls her into his side, there is a new comfort in his grasp on her shoulder she only tried to escape moments ago. Breaths are taken steadily, in through her nose and out through her mouth. “I haven’t told your father or mother, or even Husker for that matter. He’s here with me simply for precautionary measures at the bar. This was a dangerous thing for you to plan out, so I had to be careful.”

Her eyes snap back to him, and once more, his smile restores comfort. _Of course…_ Alastor has served her family for a long time now, so if he’s untrustworthy, then who else can she trust besides Vaggie? The tremors now softened into a weariness, she sighs heavily.

“Thank you, Alastor, for helping her... but now, please take us to her. I want to see if she’s alright…”

“For **your** sake, she better be alright!” Vagatha’s distrust has not curbed in the slightest, but when Charlotte raised her attention to her, her hardened expression suddenly gives way. “Wait a minute…” Vagatha whispers. “Could that be…?”

She doesn’t have time to complete the sentence when, once again, Charlotte is _yanked_ from Alastor’s hold from behind. She sees his surprise-ridden eyes in a whirl of lights before she’s turned forcefully!

“Oh!!” She’s pulled into a man’s firm chest, her fists tightened when a surge of anger rolls in her stomach. She has had _just about enough_ with being thrown around! When she’s pulled into a dip just as Alastor had, she opens her mouth for an indignant shout when--

 _“MMF!”_ A pair of warm lips captures her anger in a full mouthed kiss! 

_What the hell is this night turning into?!_ She’s ready to scream when the figure pulls away! To hell with keeping her identity a secret! Until she hears the _Manhattan accent_ she did not expect to hear for another couple of days. 

“Heya, toots!” 

Her mind buzzes with muddied thoughts, questions piled into a mountain to compete with Mt. Everest! Her voice is lost once more when she recognizes none other than _Anthony Augustino!_ His pale face is stretched into a flirtatious grin, his eyeliner dripped from sweat as his chemically- colored blonde hair strings haphazardly all over his flushed skin. His pink suit is messy, a few buttons undone at his neck, and one missing.

“This cat botherin’ you?”

The question gave her all the answers. He did something similar back in New York when men would not leave her be at the speakeasy. Vagatha’s presence certainly helped matters, but as soon as Anthony swooped in to the rescue, the harassment ceased. However, instead of thanks, her heart trembles with _horror_ once she sees Alastor’s hand shooting toward Anthony’s lapel. 

“ _It’s not what it looks like--!!”_ Too late, her friend is launched off, and Charlotte free falls unto the floor.

“What the _fuck!?”_ He screams as he _flies_ with a single pull, Anthony’s shoes afloat above the floor, and his pink fedora flutters away. Alastor is perhaps an inch or two shorter, yet he carries the don’s son with ease, and crashes him into the divider.

**_Slam!!_ **

“Mr. Alastor! Wait!!” Vagatha rushes to the rescue, but hesitates instantly upon seeing that _terrifying_ expression she saw at breakfast.

“Alastor!!” 

The butler doesn’t respond. His tight-lipped smile stretches into a jagged snarl when he twists Anthony’s right arm and renders him immobile. The band still continues, though the musicians awkwardly stare from their musical notes, the commotion a stage for the stars and commoners above and below. Some dancers pull away from the floor, quick to berth themselves from possible involvement. Alastor’s breaths are deep and ominous, like a bull sweeping its hoof to the sand before making its deadly charge. He looks ready to gore the man trapped under his hold. Charlotte’s heart hammers in her chest, the expression on Alastor’s face like an animal’s. 

_Like an alligator’s._

Oh, Charlotte wishes so terribly for this night to end! “Alastor, please…”

“So, who’s the lucky _bastard_ , princess?” A harrowing tone carries venomous inflection, like thorns barbing through cordial tone. The edge struck a chord of curious tension. _Why is he so angry?_

“Alastor! It’s not what you think!” Charlotte assures. Of all the things, why is it she worries more about what he saw than possibly breaking Anthony’s arm?

“Ergh… Heh! I’m just yer average, every-day _gigolo,_ pal.” The bound man answers with a groan, movement grasped so he can breath. His windpipe is caught between the wood and the butler’s fist. Before Alastor can give a response, all four hear the tell-tale sign of a hammer pulled back on a _bean-shooter._

Alastor looks down, eyebrow quirked amusedly. A chuckle chimes darkly at the revolver pointed around the _ethel’s_ waist from his free hand.

“Well, well! Looks like we’ve got a live one.”

“Ha! If you want to stay alive, hands off the merchandise!”

“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?”

Charlotte inwardly groans. Oh, she just wants this to **end!** She turns around, ready to assure everything is under control until she recognizes a **third,** and even _more_ unexpected _bird_. Dressed in a black, pinstripe suit is the man she and Vagatha had entered just behind, alone of the two women once at his side at the entrance. Jet black hair is slicked into a polished shell, not one stray on his handsome face. Spiced cologne invites her to calm, but the narrowed blue eyes freezes her to attention. A Cuban cigar teeters between his teeth like a pendulum as he addresses the two men currently in a tussle. 

“If there’s an issue, then I’m certain it can be taken _outside.”_

His face is from her favorite picture shows, a dashing hero rushing on the back of his steed to heed the call of innocents, face painted in glamour’s entice. She’s never seen him in person before, and is silenced by the coldest blue she can only compare to the arctic oceans and full lips slackened around the cigar. He carries a spell-binding presence in person compared to the hex he places on the audience through black-and-white screens. Charlotte wants to smack herself silly for her own oblivion!

She didn’t realize just _who_ she had been near this whole time! 

“Y--You’re Vox Kvalheim!!” 

The famous picture-show actor. If they weren’t already in an entangled situation, she would have been _much_ more enthused to see her favorite entertainer! Vox eyebrow quirks, before he acknowledges Charlotte with a handsome smirk. 

Alastor’s expression, however, darkened deeply, his smile all the more sinister as his eyes cut into the actor like a blade. The words seem to have done the deed, his hands removed from Anthony’s back. The Italian _discretely_ tucks away his gun from searching eyes, suit straightened angrily. Vox, with a stoic expression, meets the butler’s with cold dignity. He nods his head, cordial in greeting. Charlotte suddenly feels herself at the threshold of a soundless battle, with unheard screams screaming in her mind. 

_What… is going on?_

“It’s been a long time, Mr. Griffiths.”

“Mr. Kvalheim…” 

And with that, Charlotte feels she could faint. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stout: big glass of beer
> 
> Tipping a few: having a few drinks
> 
> Conk: head
> 
> lit up like a Christmas tree: drunk
> 
> Stout: a tall glass of beer
> 
> drank from the same bottle: close friends
> 
> Bim: woman
> 
> Gasper: cigarette
> 
> Button: face
> 
> Swell: good
> 
> Cats: men
> 
> Mrs. Grundy: an uptight or very straight-laced individual
> 
> Ankle: walk
> 
> Jinglebrained: addled
> 
> Bootleg: illegal alcohol
> 
> Whangdoodle: song
> 
> choice bit of calico: beautiful women
> 
> Dressed to the nines: finely dressed
> 
> Diacles: glasses
> 
> Goons: mob henchmen
> 
> Quilt: an alcoholic beverage that keeps you warm


	6. Ricochet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and an old enemy curious. Old flames return, and new ones are stoked.

Alastor prides himself as an impeccable planner, even precautionary measures to prevent unwanted outcomes. A terrific skill set for a butler, since it’s up to him to prepare the home to entertain guests of every state, country, and continent _._ Hunts for his deer and _bumbling trouble boys,_ extra measures in traps have to be taken. He is not God to be in two places at once, hence Husk’s and Niffty’s employ. He is _aware_ of his own mortality, and hence, measures are taken to see to his accomplishments.

Tonight, he’ll admit, left him _momentarily_ flabbergasted. An extra few faces is a simple matter, yet the inferno in his chest demands recompense by _blood_ . Charlotte dipped in the arms of a _boob,_ who unwisely **cashed** her, did _something_ to cause a mindless reaction, one he simply allowed carry him like a captain’s ship by the waves! 

_That_ **_simply_ ** _won’t do._

Restraint nearly broke, for had he thrown the _ethel_ just a _little_ harder or shifted him differently on the panel, he would have shattered his Adam’s apple and left him to choke on his own blood. Where would he be at fault? The boy approached royalty. As a servant to the crown, he is within his rights to _kill,_ yet, he is hindered by three obstacles: the boy _packing heat,_ a familiar face from the past, and, most of all, Charlotte herself. 

“It’s not what you think!!”

 _And just_ **_what_ ** _is it then,_ he wanted to respond, but his movements continued. Charlotte’s plea is a seraph’s entreaty. At her shout, he deliberately lessened the impact of collision, evaded the carved, sharp protrusions of apple flower vines on the wooden panel. He would not look at her, but her eyes have branded her prayer into his mind, an onslaught of invisible fingers gripping his latent conscience to cease. He’s quite irked with her _._

“Alastor, please…”

In a last attempt to remove her influence on his actions, he nips at her gentleness. His cheeks begin to hurt with the tightness of his grin.

“So, who’s the lucky **bastard** , princess?”

She seems to misunderstand her position. A princess is to remain pure of unsavory touch and be an example to her people. **That** is her role as **future queen.** He may as well be a piece of flesh as putrid as the mafia’s! The Royal Butler has his role until the game reaches its conclusion: to protect his princess. 

Vox, unfortunately, reminds Alastor there is more to consider than the royal family’s honor, but also, her image; and his own. Prudent once more of the watchful audience in the balcony, the bar, and the dancefloor, he loosens his hold. How often do stars see beyond their pretty birdcages? Alastor always preferred his shadows, for his voice to carry across the mesh of a home radio and act as a ventriloquist for the creeping shadows in the hallway for his horror shows. He infiltrated the mind to panic, to calm, to obey. He’s never been one to be seen, and he most especially will not start now before this _sheik_ who takes his fantasy as a _hero_ a little too seriously. Alastor knows better. 

Oh, he most _especially_ knows Vox Kvelheim better. Just as he knows the former radio host better. 

_This could be a problem._ Nevertheless, hands return to his back, haughty stance regained with a sigh. A benign smile hides the fangs the actor’s presence _inspires._

“I do apologize for the commotion, Mr. Kvalheim. There was a simple matter of _boundaries_ violated by this gentleman.”

“Fuck **you!?”** Rasps the man when Vagatha rushes to him. She abruptly pulls him by the arm, sharp eye cutting into Alastor. The butler almost laughs as she distances themselves. New York did little to change the prickly bear-cat. “I’m all for choking, bruddah, but this prick just tried to break my fucking _pipe_ in!”

“Anthony _!”_ She scolds. “ _Callate!”_

 _Charming._ A single eyebrow rises as Alastor overhears the name, giving ‘Anthony’ a side-long glance. 

“It was a misunderstanding!!” Charlotte speaks, quick to step before the actor. “It was because of me. I hadn’t introduced them yet and it became a silly kerfuffle!”

“Ah…” Alastor watches Vox’s expression carefully, and tenses when his baby blues sparkle with amusement. “So he was trying to _weasel_ in on some cat’s _tomato_?”

“N-No!!” Charlotte jumps, frantically waving her hands. “Nothing like that at all!” Alastor would have chuckled at her endearing distress, but he steps forward to her rescue. 

“Whatever the reason may be, madam, that is no excuse to act like a pair of uncivilized animals.” 

“Right you are, my good man.” He easily slips between then, a bounce in her stance when she chirps, surprised. “But I am also responsible for my employer’s safety, am I not? I’m sure you can find it in your heart to forgive the commotion, given we carry-on hospitably.”

Vox’s eyebrow rises, until it nearly touches that overly greased polish on his head. Alastor gives a nod toward the nervous young woman behind him. “She’s your employer?”

“Of course, and a real doll at that! We were all having a _hoot,_ a couple of drinks between co-workers! You know, after a hard day’s work. You just happened on a most unfortunate _hiccup_ for the evening _._ ” He sees her fumble beneath her cloche in the corner of his eye, his grin turned to her. “Isn’t that right, Charlie?”

Her eyes flutter, and his laughter chimes. How adorable! He’s never spoken her name without the honorifics, let alone even knew her nickname, but should anyone learn of her lineage, word will spread like wildfire. He’d rather evade the awkward questions, and is pleased to see her nod vigorously. 

Yet, Why does her nickname feel so strange on his lips?

“Yes... Yes, that’s right. A minor hitch.”

“There, you see?” Satisfied, Alastor reaches back and pulls her close to his side, straightening to hang his hand on his lapel. Her small gasp plants a softer smile, one much less painful, on his face.“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Kvalheim, but we must depart now. An early morning, you see.” He turns the both of them around, nodding to the confused faces of Vagatha and the _gigolo._ “Come along, dear, and bring him along. I left the automobile with the valet.”

She grits her teeth, but nods. He watches with interest the way she holds Anthony steady, her whispers of comfort (“ _We’ll get you some ice for your throat, alright. It looks red.”)_ an amusing fascination. Through the years, Vagatha showed a deep-seeded disposition against men, so this is a new turn of events. 

“Mr. Griffiths.” Alastor turns, the actor stooped to pick up the discarded fedora before offering. 

_Ah, must have dropped during the commotion._ “Thank you. My suit wouldn’t be complete without it!” Quick to take the hat, he tries once more to leave quickly. 

“Indeed, and another thing.” Alastor bites back a sigh, yet he endures with cordial flair as he places the hat over his heart.

“Yes?”

“You won’t stay to have a drink with an old friend, Mr. Griffiths?” 

_What an unusual request._ Alastor tilts his head, studying Vox’s face. If at all, the actor would have as much reason to want to avoid him. He elegantly removes his cigar, a white plume toked politely to evade Alastor’s general direction. 

“Perhaps, some other time. Is there something you wish to discuss?”

“No. Simply for old times sake. I will be staying in this area for the time being to record some scenes for an upcoming picture-show. If the notice is too short, what’s another good time for you this week?”

“You actors don’t know the meaning of ‘short notice’ with such demanding schedules.” Alastor chuckles, Vox only offering a single snort of laughter. The air begins to feel _too_ familiar for his own fancy.

“Come, why not humor me?”

While the entertainer is a bittern on the tongue, his insistence leaves a mild tickle of curiosity. He certainly doubts Vox has the humility to admit his wrongs, but what’s a good meal and a few drinks? He can possibly fit in a perfect time to sock his eye.

“... I suppose I should. For old time’s sake. Is seven tomorrow well by you? Our bellies will be full enough to enjoy a _jorum of skee_ around eight.” 

There is something irksome in Vox’s grin when his eyes shift behind Alastor. Charlotte stands close, and how Vox’s eyes crinkle at the princess spurs the butler to end this night quickly. Quick to return the hat to his head, Alastor nods his exit and turns, quick to take her shoulder when he signals to Husk, who stood at the end of the steps as soon as he saw the upheaval, to pick up the automobile. 

“Until then, bonne nuit, Mr. Kvalheim!”

“Gute Nacht…”

Charlotte looks back with a wave, then looks up, but Alastor intends no answers for anything except for one. “Ms. Agostino’s waiting.” 

______________________________________

  
  


Alastor had the mind to fling the boy into the forest and leave him at the mercy of his traps once proper introductions had _finally_ been exchanged. Anthony Emilio Agostino, son of Don Henroin Agostino; and, much to Alastor’s chagrin, a gigolo. While it was explained to him on the ride home the kiss had been a warding tactic for Charlotte’s sake, Alastor still found Anthony’s ploy a sort too…

Libertine. He still couldn’t look Charlotte in the eye, quick to separate himself from her as soon as they enter the vehicle. On the way home, Anthony _went on the up and up,_ admitting the lies in the letters about the time of arrival to confuse anyone who might have intercepted them. Even as careful as he was to confuse his own family on a leadless chase, someone still read the patterns extremely well. His own brother, Arachniss, connected his little brother’s intellect, and so sent some _goons_ after him. His disheveled appearance clearly explained, a new dread fills the ride home of what this could mean for their safety. 

“The fucking mafia... So, we are chaperoning the **fucking don’s son!! Dammit!!”** Husk, rightly so, begins to beat the dashboard with a heavy fist but Alastor’s grin remains directed to the windshield. Husk’s stomach begins to plummet when he looks to Alastor. He _knows_ he’s up to something, but if it includes the kid behind them, should he perhaps find another job? Alastor only looks back, eyebrows wiggling a hinted gleam.

_Enjoy the ride, Husker._

_“Oh…_ **_Fuck!”_ **

They arrive at the lightless manor, a few confused guards suspiciously eyeing the new individual, to which Anthony replies with the sweep of his blond locks from his face. 

“Ya like what ya see, baby? First show’s free…” 

Vagatha harshly pushes him past the confused sentries, an enraged protest shouted back when she nods apologetically. “Sorry, he’s… not from here.” 

Alastor squeezes the bridge of his nose. He should have made him ride with Tony, the chaperone who had originally delivered the two ladies by one of the manor’s _boilers_ , when told to drive home alone. Husk lingers until they enter the front door, weary of Anthony’s advances he angrily endured on the way.

“Go fuck yourself.” He says with finality, turning his back to walk to his room, but Anthony smoothly dances before him, lashes fluttering when he presses a finger on the _bimbo’s_ lips.

“Only if ya _watch_ me…” The seductive whisper warms the cheek with husky breaths, and the footman’s teeth flash, fist rearing to plummet into Anthony’s smug _button._ Alastor reflexively catches his wrist before he could exact his _chin music._ Oh, he understands fully how much Husk wants to break in his nose, the desire quite mutual for an entirely different reason.

 _Just how many clients did he touch with that mouth before nestling on Charlotte’s?_ “That’s enough for now, Husk. You’re relieved of your duties for this evening.”

Husk’s thicker wrist shakes off the iron grip, shoving Anthony off before he stomps away to the servant’s quarters. He intends to drown himself in his secret stash and never move from bed tomorrow.

“As for the rest of you, I think we have one more guest you are all eager to meet before we can all rest.” Taking a candelabra off the table set beside the front door, he reaches for a zippo in his breast pocket, unaware of one women’s earnest examination of his face in the light.

_Just like the fireflies who flit across his eyes._

“Come, I will take you to the den to wait in the meantime. Please, do be quiet.”

Instantly, Anthony’s face sheds his licentious grin as Alastor leads them down a long wallway, his tall figure a ferryman guiding across the deathly quiet halls. A cold chill follows the group, the spring air doing little to warm the manor’s paths. Charlotte walks close, unsure when she can speak to him when he continues to keep her at an arm’s length. 

“Alastor--?” But she’s interrupted.

“Is my sistah okay?” Alastor smiles at the unease in his voice.

“Some minor wounds from being chased, Mr. Agostino, but she’s fine.”

“What about the bastards who chased her? Where are they now?”

“Taking the _Big Sleep_ , sir.”

A tense silence follows, the pictures at each side, every coat of armor promises a haunted future. The candlelight does nothing to warm the home’s eeriness. Charlotte cannot see his face, but knows he still smiles, however out of place it seems with his answer. Vagatha cautiously continues. 

“... By the night guards?”

“A night guard, yes. They entered after dark, and through a restricted area. Molly’s quite lucky to be alive.” A hidden glint flashes in his eye, mischief’s prevalence alight. No more is asked, instead whispers exchanged to a lighter subject as he leads them through the hall. 

“Ya know, babe, if ya had told me ya already had such a fine _sheik_ playing as yer stuntman, I woulda tried to cash him instead!”

“Anthony!!”

Alastor’s jaw tightens, unable to remain silent. “I’m her _butler,_ sir.”

“Kinky!” He coughs, nursing his throat. “Ya must like it rough…” 

Another groan is stifled.

A door is approached to the left, and Alastor reaches for the light switch, night’s oppression chased back into the hallway. A room of scarlet dances under the electricity, a familiar cadence of color reflective to the speakeasy’s. White leather couches face each wall, and a white hearth stands unlit. A gold and red carpet matches the fur stoles draped atop the arms for the guests' need for warmth. The group floods in, instantly relieved at the presence of light. The boy lounges languidly onto the large den couch, sighing happily.

“Yeesh, nice digs! Ya hidin’ bodies up in this joint?” He laughs tightly, but Vagatha’s elbow answers with a thump to his ribs.

“Will you _shut up!”_

“Fuck, you damn bearcat, watch the goods!”

“While I retrieve Ms. Molly, Vagatha,” Vagatha looks up, seeing her boss still standing in the hallway, “would you please brew some honey tea with lemon? I’m sure it would do wonders for Mr. Agostino’s throat.” 

Vagatha, an annoyed wrinkle on her nose, nods. “Yes, sir.” 

She turns back to Anthony, inspecting his throat. This is a sight to behold, one even Alastor found amusing. He dares release a chuckle, for he hasn’t seen Vagatha act so lively, or concerned, for a man before. ‘Dogs, the lot of them’, she would often say. Bowing his exit, he continues down the hall, when he hears a pair of heels chase behind him. 

“Alastor, um…”

Tension seizes his back turns when he turns quizzically to Charlotte.

“Once everyone goes to bed, I _need_ to speak with you. Please.”

He lowers his voice, careful not to be heard. “Can it not wait until morning?”

“No, because then I might lose you to **chores.”** She nears, until he can completely trace out her face under the burnished gold gilded into her locks. He faces her fully, the pout of her lips awfully charming, though her firmness strikes him. “Please, won’t you meet me at the gazebo tonight?”

“It’s not proper.” 

Many an excuse builds at his tongue, and all, very valid. After all, her father’s inquiry of marriage --And _Seviathan,_ an earl from Europe _\--_ haven’t quite left him comfortably able to stand in her general direction. And he can’t look at her without thinking of what happened tonight. Focus would be lost, and trivial thoughts would distract him. 

On Tuesday, she came to the kitchen to find him, but he had been completely focused on cooking for dinner, guiding the staff to muffalettas and poboys. He wouldn’t look at her, instead politely requesting she waited in the dining room. Wednesday, he looked to the gardens, and kept the king company, advising him on his documents and requests from his people. Charlotte didn’t have a moment to find him. The rest of the week went on, with the only true time he would see her was when he was on ‘guard duty’. He watched from afar, watched the angelic softness gleam under the heavenly lantern. Far from his reach, as she _should_ be. Now she stood before him, not allowing him to leave by the sharp glare and the stubborn stance. 

“Alastor!” She fumes. He’s tickled, delighted by her passion. “Don’t give me that after tonight. I _know_ you’ve been avoiding me.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Alastor Gustave Griffiths, as princess and heir to the throne, I demand to see you tonight! As soon as everyone goes to bed.”

He blinks, impressed. _Well, she’s never had to pull out my middle name before._

Chortles answer as he meets her ebony stare, playfully challenging. Cheerful smile unwavering whereas her frown bares her order as law _._ Such control, and from one so soft in demeanor. Quite the paradox, she is. Silently, Alastor allows himself to see her up close once again. Once more, he is in wonderment. As a youth, she was a spitfire with eyes too large and cheeks too round with a body as willowy as a scarecrow, and now, almost nothing matches the little girl he found tied under the bed of the two thugs he murdered. Her eyes are still large, but they are now starless pools, a chain in one glance. Flames dance within her pupils, stars folicking in a black ballroom. Such an unholy color, yet he is drawn to obey. At last, he sighs in resignation. 

“As soon as everyone goes to bed, I will meet you at the gazebo, Princess Charlotte.”

Seeing the satisfaction on her face, Alastor feels an odd appeasement. Her coral lips shimmer with a smile, coaxing him to serenity’s bawd. 

“Thank you, Alastor.”

She curtsies, turning back to return to Anthony and Vagatha. He secretly studies the folds of her skirts flowing at her tiny ankles. Quick to catch himself, he pats away the nonexistent dust on his suit, thoughts chased away when he _ankles_ for the dungeon.

______________________________________

Molly flings herself into Anthony’s arms, tears pouring in abundance. Alastor takes the time to marvel the identical faces, height, even the browning of their roots from chemically bleached locks. He was so engrossed in his earlier dislike of Anthony, time was not taken to recognize his features. Truly a fascinating phenomenon, given their stark differences in personality. Charlotte and Vagatha gingerly approach, but Anthony couldn’t bring himself to separate from her, even when she attempts to greet them between his arms. 

“I’ve been worried about ya, sis, so I ain’t lettin’ ya go!”

“Are you alright? _Bozo_ there didn’t give you a scare, did he?” Vagatha’s question makes him chuckle, but he’s quick to catch Molly’s pretty blues with a knowing wrinkle of his eyes. 

Immediately, she understands, and refuges herself deeper into Anthony’s arms. “I’m fine… I promise, I’m fine.”

Satisfied, Alastor takes to the extra cup of honey lemon tea on the tray, and takes it to the happy twins. A sort of olive branch, now that he’s aware she was telling the truth. 

“This should help you calm your nerves.”

She tenses on Anthony’s shoulder, questioningly looking between the porcelain tea cup and Alastor’s deceptively gentle smile. 

“Go on.” he urges softly. 

Gingerly, she pulls away and cautiously takes the saucer from his gloved fingers. A great deal of hesitation remains in her movements before she quickly walks to her brother’s side further from the creepy butler. He is so beyond confusing to her, ready to kill her one minute, then nice to her the next!

He only looks back to her, bowing before he retreats to the den’s entrance.

He made good on his promise and kept her comfortable in the cells, keeping her warm in multiple blankets and had taken the time to dress the wounds. Bandages and a sling cover her arm. The new clothes were provided from Charlotte’s old clothes and a hot plate of jambalaya was prepared before leaving for the speakeasy. Upon his reentrance, she immediately faltered, wrapped tightly in the thick blankets when she backed near to the wall. He was personally satisfied to see the dish emptied and her cup dry of hot coffee. The meal clearly did not lessen her fear of him, something Alastor found funny. Unfortunately, he did not have the time to tease, a brief exchange of one-sided chuckles before he procured the cell key. Next to the empty crockery was a signed piece of paper; the contract Alastor left for her to sign to promise secrecy of the dungeon and his contraptions. And to provide him information of her little circle of criminals whenever he asks.

Satisfied to see her signed agreement, he tucked the rolled parchment into his inner pocket before stepping aside at the open cell door. “Come along now, Ms. Agostino. Her highness and Vagatha await. As does your brother.”

Her fear seems completely forgotten now with the buzz, the relief and late night sweets eaten between them. 

“I’m so happy we were able to bring you two back together…” 

Suddenly, he’s forgotten the words her father told her, forgot the unpleasantness of tonight’s mishap, all to the light of seeing her endless kindness overflowing from her eyes. The room had been shaken, swept into her benevolence. The sight of all of them tingles the heart, even Alastor somewhat swept in the bittersweet memories of what is now lost to him when he sees Charlotte tenderly join hands with the siblings, her eyes shining with such joyful tears. He suddenly grows impatient for her attention. The week was far too long.

The grandfather clock ticks away its incessant reminder of the late hour, far past appropriate, and frankly, he’s eager to reach the gazebo. Alastor gave a small clap of his hands to rupture the high of a happy and safe reunion. 

“I’m glad everything has come to a satisfactory conclusion, but I believe the hour is late. There’s still the matter of explaining this to your mother and father, Princess Charlotte, so it is imperative we get some rest.”

He notes the flicker on her face, but he continues to address the rest. 

“I will be taking our guests to their rooms. Mr. and Ms. Agostino, you will be staying on the second floor.”

No one objected, suddenly aware of their mutual fatigue. Of course, before she and Vagatha retire to their rooms, Charlotte pauses by his side. A linger too conspicuous in its message, but he does not object when their eyes meet in silence. They stand two feet from each other, and yet, he felt her eagerness. _And his own._ His sight turns away, and she follows after her maid into the darkness. Alastor relights the candelabra, nodding to the hall for them to follow. Molly is set in a proper guest room, and Alastor leads Anthony to the door right across the hall, the golden rays gilded across the elaborate carvings on the ceiling.

But once he steps aside to allow Anthony into his own quarters, the gigolo does not enter. He idles, strangely silent, impressively so when he spent the last hour on boasts of rampant vulgarity. Alastor had mentally prepared himself with a retort or perhaps a sock on the nose if the man tries to beckon him to join, but when he finally replies, Alastor is actually intrigued _._

“Hey, ya didn’t do somethin’ t’ my sistah, didja?”

Alastor raises a brow to the edge in his Brooklyn accent, the man towering over him.

His mismatched eyes glow in hidden wrath, fists balled tight at his sides. A fleet of flames burn within his sight, bloody intent solely honed on the butler. Tingles shutters down Alastor’s spine, a lion’s hackles raised to return the challenge by unveiled fangs, his smile only rising. Fearless and _quite_ entertained _._ Civility kept his lips sealed on the matter of Charlotte, and suddenly Alastor sees a ripe opportunity to return the favor for his less-than-dignified entrance. Excitement thrums its surge through the tightening on his fingers to the candelabra. His mind whispers, beckons to stoke the flames of this _buffoon_.

“Why would you think that?”

Anthony’s eyes narrow, caught between uncertainty and suspicion when Alastor does not so much as falter, despite the taller ferocity. 

“Jus’... she looked ready to piss her pants when you were near her.”

“Possibly nerves, sir. She’s been chased by the mob, after all.”

Regret’s flicker crosses Anthony’s face, his pose deflated to annoyed embarrassment. He sighs, aggravatingly raking back his hair. 

“... Sorry. I’m worried about ‘er.” Alastor raises his chin in victory, as he watches the hostility melt from his shoulders, but a softer determination remains. “I’m staying with my sistah. I don’t want her by herself.”

“Suit yourself. I won’t stop you from seeing your own family. She explained to me herself she hasn’t seen you in five years.” Alastor quickly turns his back, lighting the path in the hallway to the door across from him. “You were the very reason she risked her own life. So, I suggest you cherish the time you have.” 

Hands tucked into his pockets, a grimace replacing all the bravado he was ready to prove in a bout of fists. Alastor takes his hand away from his chest, away from the knife tucked away in his inner breast pocket to place his fist to his back. 

“One more thing, Mr. Agostino.” Anthony looks up from Molly’s door quizzically. Alastor’s eyes narrow, a new intensity radiated from a distance. The shadows encroach each crease of his face, golden light seeped into his smile until each tooth glows into yellow fangs. A felled image unwarranted in its goodwill. “You are now a guest of the royal household, but this is not New York. This will be your sanctuary until you give me a reason otherwise. One being should you kiss Princess Charlotte again, I will exercise my duties to the fullest. Even if I kill you.” 

He watches the warning sink in, the gigolo’s jaw clenched. The tension rises anew, Anthony’s raising a malicious smile of his own. 

“Relax, sugah _._ I ain’t _dizzy fer yer dame,"_ Alastor nearly corrects him, "but if yer interested in a three-way…” His eyebrows wiggle, and Alastor fights the urge to finish what Husk started when Anthony’s eyes travel up and down. “I’ll gladly do ya a discount.” With a wink, he enters Molly’s room and closes the door.

With a roll to the butler’s eyes, the flames are snuffed out.

The house falls silent, the shades frolicking to their favorite corners, haunting the manor with a silent crouch at the ankles of the mortal mind quick to bend under black illusions. Alastor has long conquered these shades which encroach at every corner, seeing them as his tools for his hunts and companions for his solitude. However, tonight, they lost their appeal. A new vigor pulses through his steps, as he ventures toward one of the balcony doors in the hallway. Once he steps out, the flowers are dimmer, and the pathway is hidden, for the crescent moon nearly hides under its sleepy onyx veil. Like an eyelid waning against sleep, yet his eyes are wide awake for the rays glowing afar. The lantern light encapsulated in the wooden rooftop. He cannot see her beyond the walls of the garden labyrinthe, but he knows she awaits. 

His princess awaits him.

 _One week was far,_ **_far_ ** _too long._

______________________________________

  
  


Vox passes his coat to the butler, confident strides through the marble hallway toward a malicious goal. He called earlier than appropriate, the butler of the household informed he would drop by for breakfast and his mistress must be bright and bushy-tailed by the time he arrived. He knew she wouldn’t be, for he can already hear the howling screams leaving her bedroom. He stops some twenty feet from the door when he sees a man and a woman dragging a pretty young brunette, possibly not yet twenty, by her arms as she wails. She would be a type easily to fit Valentino’s criteria. 

“Help me!! Help me, please! Mrs. Cardinal, please!! Don’t let them take me!”

Her bloodshot eyes pours diamonds across her young face, and Vox can see the red handprint clearly outlined on her face. She hysterically reaches for him, a rescuer she thought; but Vox is nothing of the sort, despite how the picture shows proclaim him. Despite his valiance the night before, he makes no move to stop the pair from carrying the girl to her inevitable future.

One hand in his pocket, he knocks on the open threshold, seeing a robed, ample blond at her vanity striking a match to a _fag_ , a _deck of luckies_ sprawled amongst her rouges. A lavish bedroom sprawls with shining fabrics and ivory decorations. Herons frolic along her walls, silver and gold flowing across the mirror and bed. A chandelier glows of diamonds above her, caught in the sunlight through her window. Lining her walls are white trees, climbing to the ceiling in the purity of false life. 

A perfect haven for a most talented songbird. She looks up, jades narrowed at the handsome figure staring back at her reflection. Her yellow bob is unbrushed, though her face remains flawless in the time he’s known her, new weight aside. She still managed to look elegant in her mannerisms, in the narrow lashes plucked from raven’s wings. 

“You have a lot of nerve coming on such short notice. It better be good!” Taking a cigarette holder, she inhales a long drag, her shoulders visibly relaxing before a gust of white exits her crimson lips. 

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for anything that might interest you.”

“I don’t have any more girls to give to your little side business for the moment. That last one is the only young one I had until later. Your partner, Valentino, should receive her by noon.”

“I’m assuming she gave you some lip, or spilled some wine on your dress…?”

Mimzy glares back, turning herself on the red, velvet stool. He can see the generous cleavage, _bubs_ barely tucked into a white robe. Seeing her give her a once over fills her with self-satisfaction, ashes tapped into her ashtray. “The little wench tried to steal one of my rings. Is that not why you’re here?”

“No, fräulein, not for the moment. There’s another matter I think would interest you.” He walks to the side of the room, helping himself to a serving of scotch in a crystal decanter set by the door. Mimzy’s eyes narrow, but Vox can only suppress a chortle at the mounting annoyance in her gaze. She had a presence about her when she could control that temper of hers, and silence a room into a trance by the clearest _pipes_ he has ever heard. She could be the reckoning of the century, _if_ she knew how to keep her composure. 

“I met with Alastor Griffiths last night.”

Mimzy snorts, jades rolling, lips about her _gasper_ stick. “That fat _egg_ who kept staying after my shows every tour while following me around at every state? I hope you _capped_ him.”

Vox’s brow quirks. Well, then, he shouldn’t be surprised. One is bound to meet one or two individuals with a common first and last name. So, he _jorums a skee,_ long stare posed over the crystal brim for Mimzy’s sour expression. 

“Mimzy, do you recall the name Alastor **Gustave** Griffiths by any chance?”

The singer stops, a victorious reaction for the actor. He delights in the glazed expression, the slack of her full lips when a storm of soft rainfall hides in the raven lashes batting at her full cheeks. 

_Well, well! That was a better reaction than I could’ve hoped!_

“... You mean…?”

“Yes, fräulein. Looks the same, too. And it looked like he was getting sweet with his own employer.” He smirks maliciously.

"Damn you..." Mimzy’s teeth gnash, hateful emeralds cute into jade knives. “Who’s the bitch?”

“... Well… wouldn’t **you** like to know.” He truly is not certain. Blonds are a dime-a-dozen in Hollywood, but this particular beauty held a certain fellow’s attention who was thought quite elusive. That alone intrigues Vox. Cheeks like roses, and eyes as abysmal as a black hole, a demeanor which ushers a man’s better nature to shine. So purely innocent. Could it be Alastor seeks to corrupt her? “She looked just like a _princess.”_

Her teeth grit, fist balled at her knee. Vox has to wonder how a woman can _carry a torch_ for a man for so long, for ten years! Once, he empathized, but now, he just about finds the display utterly _pathetic._ He takes another swig when her clear voice begins to stir.

“Where… Where is he now?”

“Hell if I know… but I’ll be seeing him tonight.”

Mimzy’s head shoots up, and he can see the conflict. She _wants_ to go. Her eyes beg him to let her attend. 

“In time, fräulein…” He smirks at her grit teeth. “It would be rude to invite guests unannounced. But perhaps, when I corner him, I can convince him to allow your company next time.”

Her head bows, her figure turning away from him. Vox smirks from the glass, slow to approach the young woman. He can see her tense the closer he comes, turning sharp eyes against him the moment he stood above her. She may no longer be that young woman whom he had jealously watched hanging from Alastor’s arm, and the lust he had for her dried up, but there is still a small victory he felt in knowing he had a hand in the radio host’s downfall in manipulating her for himself. 

He takes her chin and raises her hardened stare into his own, his smirk only fed as he drinks in her anger. 

“All in due time, Meine Liebste… We will all come together in a long-awaited reunion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No worries, Alastor and Charlotte will have their meeting! I just needed to show what's going on Vox's end ;D Well well, seems there's more to what happened in Alastor's past than rescuing Charlotte, hm!?
> 
> 1920s Slang!  
> Button: face
> 
> Boilers: car
> 
> Cash: smooch
> 
> Weasel: to attempt to steal another man’s woman
> 
> Tomato: woman
> 
> packing heat: owns a gun
> 
> big sleep: death
> 
> Bozo: Moron
> 
> Sheik: Attractive male
> 
> Pipe: throat  
> Ankles: walk
> 
> Jorum of skee: a swig of alcohol, particularly hard liquor
> 
> Bimbo’s: burly man, masculine
> 
> chin music: A punch in the face.
> 
> deck of luckies: box of cigarettes
> 
> Fag: cigarette
> 
> Pipes: throat
> 
> Dizzy with a dame (dizzy fer yer dame): In love.
> 
> Bubs: Woman's breasts.


	7. White Doe Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For sooth, she spake unto the wayward traveler,  
> For pelts and meat, he encroached her.  
> Doth she whom loves the wayward world,  
> Could she also learn to love me,  
> the wayward sinner?
> 
> The Gazebo.

_Nerves. That’s all this is! Just nerves!_ Charlotte paces, aglow in the lantern’s refuge, but her mind is all but calm. The bubbling brook lost its luster, and the lush flowers haven’t stilled her restless thoughts. The night’s sonnet has no power to soothe her soul tonight, just as powerless as before when she was met with loneliness. Even her hand’s caress to her chest only strengthened the presence of the roll in her stomach, and the questions rang louder in her mind. 

_Will he truly come?_

The last evening they shared together bolstered the labyrinth's sanctity. The roses shined and the hydrangeas sang with the wind’s percussion when she found him in her secret spot. When he did not show through the next week, she was reminded of the longing suffered in the penthouse at the Big Apple, away from here, when she missed home; _missed him._ Her fist tightens to her chest, embarrassed with herself.

Why does her heart insist on proving her childish?

Before she left, she was free of the infatuation manacled in her chest. His face did not make her chest flutter! As a child, she recalls how she always clung to his side, an angel who came to her rescue one fateful night. The memory is a blur of confetti and tobacco, but his smiling face is so clear in its kindness. Once, she called him ‘red angel’, an homage to the memory of a red, pinstripe suit he wore the evening of her rescue, a gift from her father. He wanted to repay his daughter’s rescuer with a fine dinner and had the suit stitched for him the same hour. His skin glowed like caramel by carmine compliment, and Charlotte believed she had never seen a more handsome man. Understandably, he rejected her youthful affections a year into working as their butler. Not long after, she truly loved him as one would her family, yet her fondness was distinctly different from a brother or cousin; yet he was still an integral part of her family.

So, why did these affections resurface when she was away? Will they die like before? Such would be a relief when she is now wise of the world’s -- the underworld's-- cruelty. Between the wishes of his arrival and hopes he does not show, she prays she can look at him again without the pain of pining. 

“Your highness?”

_Oh, but her prayers are unheard._

Now she stood, encroached upon, just as she had done to him accidentally a week ago. Dressed out of his uniform, he comes with his pinstriped suit, jacket and hat draped over his arm. Sleeves are rolled to the elbow, and she sees the sinew of hard muscle she did not expect on his thin arms. The face she saw reaching out for a gagged girl under the bed has chiseled. His cheekbones are higher, and his shoulders fill out the white button-up, a dark grey vest contouring his firm chest. Before, he had a boyish charm, but now, when she had not seen him for a full year, she understands why many times, friends had stopped her to compliment him. How oblivious she was, and now even she is caught under the spell she was freed, but somehow, it’s different this time.

Matured.

_This isn’t good._

Charlotte almost lost the words to speak, a breath sighed. “It’s unusual for me to see you out of uniform.” 

“I hope that is not awkward.” He chuckles.

“No, not at all. I think you look dapper.” Her hands hid behind her back, playfulness feigned. 

A laugh shares between them. “Thank you, but you always look radiant, even in your nightgown.”

An embarrassed silence replaces the crickets song when she shyly tightens the robe over herself. Is it improper that she is in her nightgown? She tucks a stray of yellow behind her ear, hair now looped over her shoulder in a loose braid.

“Thank you, I think?” Before she would allow the one-sided awkwardness to settle, she steps backward toward the bench. “Have a seat?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He steps forward into the light, and Charlotte is given a moment to truly study what her shock would not allow her at the speakeasy. The lights frolicked with the shadows across his sharp nose, a golden line’s twinkle burnished in his amber eyes. Thank the heavens for the evening’s mask, for she recalls now, with embarrassment, the proximity shared when he surprised her into a dance. 

_Now’s not the time for such childish thoughts._

“... Alastor,” He looks up, “... Why were you avoiding me? Did I do something to upset you?”

“Not at all. As I said, you were imagining things, your highness.”

“Alastor…” She looks at him imploringly, only for his gaze to lift wryly. Could she truly be imagining his avoidance? She remains resolute, but so does he, as does his smile. “Maybe I am… but the labyrinthe felt lonely as of late.”

“... Forgive me.”

“It’s alright…”

His face changes subtly, near invisibly. Charlotte studies carefully, watching a tension she did not know he held melt until he looks drained. Truly, if she hadn’t commanded him to join her, would he have come at all? Does he _want_ to see her? Lips chewed, she looks out to the willow trees veiled under ivory halos, answers sought under the moonless radiance. A silence overcomes them, the princess hopeful his presence would comfort; yet unlike before, his company assails her with unease. 

“Princess…” She turns back, but his sight is elsewhere. The silence feels heavier now when he calls her by her title. “Did you want to speak to me?”

“... Yes, I did. About tonight.” She sighs.

He faces her then, enigmatic with an unreadable grin.

Lately, his smiles have filled her with confusion, until she realizes she has _always_ questioned the faithful expression. Never before, in all the time he’s served them, has she seen him frown, or even look neutral. Shoulders sag sadly, for how is it she knows so little of the man so precious to her? His actions tonight resurfaced countless questions.

“I want to ask you about Molly.” She pauses. “Why did you decide to meet us in her stead?”

She watches him lean back and twine his fingers to his crossed knee, hopeful each movement would bare some truth.

“Well, my dear, when Ms. Agostino told me she was to meet with you and Vagatha, I felt it within my duty to see the truth of her words.”

“But you couldn’t allow her to accompany you?”

“You must understand.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t sure if she was going to pull a _beanshooter_ on you once the three of you met, so I kept her here while I went to confirm this rendezvous. I wasn’t going to _take any wooden nickels_.”

“She told you everything?”

“ **Every** little thing.” Her head tilts at the jubilant lilt in his response. “I admit I was stern with her, so she relayed the information in a state of fear, and may have a bias towards me as a result.”

She shutters, well aware Alastor’s discipline is nothing to sneeze at.

Charlotte recalls when he brought in Molly to join them in the den. She looked so relieved when she saw Anthony, and ran quickly into his arms without giving so much as a look to Alastor. Charlotte had been too overwhelmed with gladness for the twins to contemplate her lack of gratitude. 

“She never thanked you.”

His thumbs lift wryly. She feels herself smile with him, exasperated. 

“How… stern were you with her?”

“You remember me telling you she entered through a restricted area, correct?”

She nods. 

“I threatened her.”

_“Alastor!”_

A gloved finger raises inches from her nose. “To preface, the King’s Forest is infested with traps to capture criminals who illegally enter the premises. She was extremely fortunate none of them had been set off.” Mostly because the traps were triggered by the _goons_ who ambushed her. “But she still entered illegally, so I thought her an enemy of the crown.”

Charlotte starts. “But she wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

“So I learned, but look at this from my perspective, dear. A complete stranger still entered through the grounds your father uses to hunt his game. To any other, it’s the perfect passage to enter the courtyard, giving an assassin full access to the windows. What if Ms. Agostino was such an assassin? I had no way of knowing, and I had to take action.”

Appalled, and frustrated by the sound argument, her arms cross.

Her mind immediately wanders through the forest he speaks of. She was warned about the traps, assured she would lose a leg if she played there, so she would always be directed to the safer labyrinth, and a part of the forest where a wall would protect her from would-be assailants. She never complained, for there was a favorite area she would climb as a child. Purple wisteria trees bloom in that space, and deer often visit to rest there.

She always felt she was protected within the flora. The comparison has far more truth than she can truly weigh, but her heart still bled for Molly.

“You said her pursuers were dead? They’re... not the only ones who tried, I assume?”

“... The king has many enemies, my dear, and in turn, you as well. That’s why I was insistent on meeting with you tonight instead of her. You were truly noble seeking the well-being of a brother and sister, but good golly, Princess, it was impulsive of you to decide all of this on your own. You should have told your parents, or at least, me.”

Determined, she retorts unabashedly. “Father would have denied me, and you wouldn’t give me the time of day! I wasn’t going to wait knowing I could have done something sooner, and that ended up being the best decision for Anthony! He would have been a sitting duck! Alastor, they haven’t seen each other in five years. It was agonizing being away for one!” She is satisfied to see his head snap to full attention. “I missed home so terribly. I missed everyone! I missed _you_!” 

Nails bite into her palm, desperate to regain control before she could regret her outburst. Alastor’s silence unnerves her, and she is afraid her secret feelings may have been revealed. Emotions roil, yet she carefully constructs her words with a long pause of an exhale.

“You should have seen what I’ve seen in Anthony’s eyes when he talked about her. She ran away, and he wasn’t allowed to speak with her because she was seen as an enemy, but he secretly kept in touch with her. He never told me what she did to be treated like that and with his association and his… occupation, it was difficult to keep untraceable. So, I…”

“You offered them refuge in a place you thought they could be safest.” Her head bows low, shameful. She knows the plan sounds naive, but she would not admit defeat. 

Alastor has half a mind to swat her over the head.

While this little arrangement ended up --mostly-- well-executed, and his plan can easily go into motion, the princess’s impertinence leaves Alastor with ample disquiet. Vagatha, he could sleep easily if she winds up _bumped_ but Charlotte _?_ He adjusts his _cheaters_ purposefully. 

“You realize what you’ve done, haven’t you?”

“...I have a clue.”

“No, you most certainly do not, my dear. Your father may control an entire continent, but the mafia is a kingdom of its own, however hidden. Their associations extend beyond the underground. They have powerful connections to political figures and the police force.” He is tempted to say one thing more but leaves it to wane in his thoughts. She doesn’t need to know _yet._

Her lips press, stubbornly resolute.

_Good heavens, this woman._

With a shake of his head, he reaches out, beseeching her sight when he tilts her chin toward him. The warmth of his fingers surprise her, colors her cheeks, but she does not fight his guidance. 

“You harbor criminals, despite them wanting to leave it all behind. One’s sins cannot simply be washed away with a wand. They are not simple sinners either. You refuge the very offspring of what many consider the Devil. Don Henroin Agostino, my dear, is a figure capable of things you have no true understanding.”

His thumb lightly grips her chin and she feels pulled in by the intensity of his eyes. Boring into her soul, but the hold is gentle. Here in his eyes, she is a mouse sitting in the _trap_ of a lion, but the beast chooses not to clamp down.

“I am responsible for your safety, Princess Charlotte, but if you decide to tread too close to this edge, I may not have the power to protect you. In frank, I may end up inadvertently hurting you.”

He wants to carry out this plan with no remorse. Queen Lilith is kind, but her death would simply be collateral if it comes to the time he finally has a clean trap for His Majesty. But Charlotte? His charming belle? She is not selling her soul to the mafia that he would seek to kill her, but she still sets herself against a powerful enemy. The furthest to harm he intends is using her to lure her father to his demise.

No more than that, yet if she were to step in the way of his rifle… 

_Well, I am no man to go back on my plans once they are in motion._

Charlotte does not look away. His assertion foretells the deaths she may have inadvertently promised by harboring the twins.

Is he concerned she will be tarnished by affiliation?

“Is that something you can live with knowing, my dear?” 

She remains in his hold, his honey drops now darkened with unreadable secrets. She knows he can, but does she fear he would? Slowly, as the answer dawns, her hand reaches toward his gloved one.

He tenses. Fingers pull back from her chin before she can touch him. Sorrow dampens her courage.

 _That’s right. He can’t stand being touched._ “May I please?” 

She watches for any cracks in his mask when she reaches for his dropped hand. She wants nothing more than his complete trust in her, even at the cost of rejection. He blinks once, thoughtful. 

_Hesitant?_

She pulls back, embarrassed by her forwardness, but a flutter in the corner of her eye warms a smile. His hand returns for her to take, tender fingers gently surrounding his knuckles.

Slow.

Gentle.

A mother’s coax for a son’s trust in her touch. Her thumb softly presses into his palm. Her confidence returns, rewarded in the comfort of his knuckles near her chin again. Conviction inspires words on her tongue before she has a chance to rethink them. 

“If I lose my life giving it for others, then I gladly welcome it.” He blinks, but she only bares her trust in him. “Alastor, If you were going to hurt me, you would have already done so.”

There, she sees beyond his mask.

A flicker of genuine astonishment.

She marvels, pondering just what else she could see, watching the contour of his cheeks, his lashes, his brow wrinkled by the shift of his veiled emotions. Swiftly, his features return into wry confidence as he watches her contemplatively. Amused, actually, though his smile appears tighter?

Something brushes under her thumb, an odd, bumpy sensation under his glove and he twitches. “Ah…”

“Oh!!”

He looks pained, and she realizes she may have brushed his stitches.

She drops his hand. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to…” 

“No, it’s um… quite alright.” He clears his throat, now more ginger with his right hand when he rests it on his crossed knee. 

“Is it still painful to use your hand?”

“It’s uncomfortable, but usable.”

“May… May I see it?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Alright.” 

They sit in silence once more, but the air clears of all discomfort. Charlotte’s mind wanders. Alastor’s mysterious appearance, Anthony thrown like a ragdoll, and Vox Kvalheim. The actor and Alastor spoke so casually, hinting at a long-lost friendship. Or, was Alastor so likable, Mr. Kvaheim was quick to invite him for dinner? Charlotte wouldn’t doubt it, but it’s a stretch. When she begins to ask, Alastor speaks

“A query, Princess.” 

“Yes…?” 

“Did you have a suitor back in New York?”

Surprise snaps her gaze back to his, but he remains collected. The prickle of dread dews the back of her neck. “What...?”

Earthen orbs stare side-long. “Your father mentioned you were seeing someone in New York. I am asking because if that’s the truth, I’m afraid meeting like this is inappropriate.”

A jumbled puzzle made whole, she answers before her thoughts can reel back her outburst. “Wait, is _that_ why you wouldn’t talk to me?”

He faces her fully then, eyes narrowed. He grows impatient with the repetition. “You haven’t exactly been honest about _who_ you have been seeing, Princess Charlotte.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Not to mention seeing you kissed by a gangly _gigolo_ left an awfully strange impression. It leaves me with a gaggle of questions with unflattering assumptions.” Alastor now leans back, superiorly condescending. “Seviathan, for example? I’m certain he wouldn’t approve of you being alone with any man, be he butler or the don’s son.” 

Her hands slam to the bench, face red in a rush of anger. The fireflies disperse, the peace disturbed in a storm of a woman’s scorn.

“I would _never_ decide on such an atrocious man like Seviathan as my suitor, let alone Anthony! He’s never done anything like that until tonight! I would _never_ have allowed it otherwise.”

He raises a brow, hinting for an explanation. Annoyed, she regains her composure, clasping her hands on her lap as embers smother in her heart. 

“Seviathan and I ended our courtship over five months ago, and I care about Anthony like the brother I never had. He only kissed me because he thought you were some _cat_ who was harassing me. I am not seeing anyone, nor am I considering. The experience with the earl has made me dread searching out for _anyone_.” 

She would not look at him, but he watches her face carefully. Unlike her struggle with reading his face like a book of a foreign language, Charlotte’s face is clear in all its sincerity. She is telling the truth.

“Do you remember Seviathan?” 

“Memory was jogged as of recently.”

In truth, he had made it a point to look into the royal thoroughly these past few days. Once a guest of the house a few months before Charlotte left, the impression was so lackluster in his egotistical presentation. Alastor had practically forgotten the boy’s existence, save for professional interests. The Earl, Seviathan Von Eldritch, The Duke Von Eldritch’s first-born son. An impressive title for an otherwise unimpressive individual.

“Yes. He came to the manor once, but it was only when I was away in New York I allowed him to court me. He stayed in a vacation home for the duration of seven months while I attended the university. I… thought he was kind before, but...”

Her hands tightened in her lap, tar gagging into her throat by memories she fails to repress. His is a subject she prayed never to relive, nor speak of. The entire courtship was a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. 

“He was cruel. He wore a friendly smile at all the dinner parties, and was the center of attention everywhere we went, but when we were alone...”

_He would smile, and her blood would run cold, for in the sinister twitch of his grin, she knew exactly what she would face once they were alone. He is upset with her for her lack of response to his joke that earned a few chuckles from his colleagues. Her mind had been elsewhere, on a couple of barefoot children she saw huddled in a cold alleyway sharing bread crumbs. She had been so appalled by the image, she couldn’t bring herself to smile. Maybe it was a good joke, but if she asked him to repeat it, he’ll bite his tense fingers deeper into her side._

_She tries to ease his hand into her side by soothing her hand over his, trying to gently coax him to serenity. Big mistake. The grips tightens, and the glare pierces a blade into her chest._

_“Excuse us, gentlemen!”_

**_No…_ **

_He guides her out of the ballroom._

_Anxiety mounts, her anger stoked. Tears threaten to spill! She wants to rent her wrist from his bruising grip, but she doesn’t want to risk attracting unwanted attention as he pulls them into seclusion in an empty hallway._

“Charlotte…” She tenses at Alastor’s left hand placed on her shoulder, and she’s back at the gazebo. The night remains undisturbed by her subconscious, the lantern dimmer. Alastor is close, narrowed eyes overlooking her features. She breathes, her chest beating at an unsteady pace when she feels his fingers tighten gently. An anchor from her memories. 

“I’m… I’m fine. Just, please… I don’t want to talk about it. I want to forget all of it.” 

Oh, but Alastor cannot forget. Not after what he just saw playing across her face. Whatever the earl put her through has left its mark, an everlasting **scar** in her mind. He had hurt her, but in what way, Alastor is left only with the tense silence as his clue. The lack of answers locks a tightness in his jaw.

 _What_ _did he_ ** _do_** _to you?_

A few exhales, she closes her eyes to still the concerns she no longer needs to entertain. She’s home now.

Alastor is _here._

Seviathan is back in his country, and she’s in the safest place she can ever be. Seeking a new reality, her hand overlaps his. Her mind quickly latches onto Alastor’s slip.

“You… called me ‘Charlotte’.” She breathes. 

“Pardon?” 

“You called me by my name.” She chuckles when he quickly removes himself, but he doesn’t pull too far. “It’s alright… I like it.” She chuckles again, eased to see him quirk a brow.

“You called me by my nickname at the speakeasy too. Did Molly tell you?”

“... Yes. In fact, I thought she was talking about a man originally.”

She giggles then, hand pressed to her chest to still the patter. “Anthony gave it to me just randomly one day because he thought ‘Charlotte’ sounded too ‘hoity-toity’. I just kind of got used to it. I kind of like it now.”

“You _like_ to be called ‘Charlie’?”

“Yes… It’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“No.”

This time her stomach tickles with a real burst of laughter, one even Alastor joins in. 

“Well… tell you what. When we’re alone, I want you to call me Charlotte, if you don’t like the sound of Charlie.”

“... That’s going to be strange.” 

The dark cloud is chased away in their banter, Seviathan now fell to a vacant memory when she’s given a moment to reflect the ease has returned between them. Perhaps, he joined only because he was ordered, but it was well worth the risk. Even living in the same household, he was so out of reach.

Now, he is here with her and the magic has returned to the gazebo. 

She’s disappointed when he takes the dim lantern, a reminder of the late hour. Tomorrow, the twins and her parents will meet under extremely awkward circumstances. Taking his offered arm, he leads them back toward the limestone stairway leading to the balcony of her living quarters. 

“I’ll be joining you, of course.”

“But isn’t it your day off? You don’t have to.”

“My dear, I’m not willing you to take on this self-imposed responsibility on your own. I may not like Mr. Agostino, but I’ve decided on taking the plunge with you. You are my charge.”

Well, she should’ve expected he doesn't like Anthony, but he still stands by her. That’s enough.

Charlotte feels a weight lift from her shoulders, her lungs now expanding to a greater capacity of freedom. Relieved, she lays her head on his shoulder, comforted by his cologne. 

“Thank you, Alastor.”

“Of course. Though after we speak with them... Would you be willing to spend the daytime hours with me?”

Her eyes snap above her, certain she misheard.

Oh, she _wishes._

She imagines walking the streets of Hollywood with him, walking along the blue beaches, but how her conscience screams louder with a fall with disappointment.

“... I can’t just leave Vaggie with Anthony and Molly. I’m pretty sure it’ll be an ordeal that’ll take all day once we finally tell Daddy. I want to help them settle in. What about your next day off?”

Alastor has to look at her with new eyes. She truly has become a woman of noble character. She has always put others before herself, but the time apart has polished her into a radiant gem. What she said earlier rings like a windchime, just as the time she asked about his happiness before he had an epiphany. 

_Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends._

Charlotte has the ability to bring such archaic Scriptures to life.

 _She does not fear death, as long as she gives it for the sake of others._ She does not understand she already stands at a precipice. _Will I be the one to pull her away… or let her fall?_ Alastor shakes his thoughts.

“Then my next day off, _cherie_.” He guides her by the hand up the steps, before tugging her knuckles. She turns back quizzically, her beautiful, doish eyes an enchantment. Taking a moment to look at her face under the golden brushstrokes of the dying lanter, he places a parting kiss to the back of her hand. He can smell the faint aroma of roses on her skin.

“Goodnight, Alastor…”

“ _Bonne nuit_ … Charlotte.”

__________________________________

  
  


“Well, I’m nowhere near ready, but what about you?”

“Toots, if I was ready to meet a king, I’m sure I’d look as ready as a stray cat.” He stretches his white tank, pink and white boxers peeking from under the covers.

Charlotte leans back at the foot of his bed. Molly was still hard asleep, her good arm wrapped around her brother’s waist. Charlotte only realizes now she is wearing an old nightgown she had long forgotten about, warmed her old clothes can give another girl the comfort she needs. She couldn’t stop another yawn from shaking through her teeth. 

_It’s starting to look obnoxious._ Her embarrassment chastises. 

“”Yeesh, Toots, yer lookin’ a bad way. Didja even sleep?”

“I went to bed much later. I needed to talk to Alastor before the night ended.”

“Alastor? Oh! That fine sheik with the chokin’ kink!”

He laughs at her blanched face. “Angel, seriously?” He chuckles at the nickname.

“Yeah, seriously! C’mon, doll, I may have left the business behind, but ya boy ain’t losin’ his touch!”

“I just hope it doesn’t get you killed. He threw you like you weighed nothing last night.”

Anthony swats at the air inconsequentially. “So, what, ya goin’ on dates with Smiles?”

“No! We just talked about last night! Things needed to be set straight.”

“By yaselves?”

“Everyone else was so exhausted.”

Angel’s face scrutinizes, until suddenly, he crawls inches away from her face, then mere centimeters. Charlotte backs away, uncomfortably confused by the closing distance, even looking to and fro at her surroundings to be certain no one walked through the door.

“Ya lookin’ fer ‘im?”

“Anthony, I don’t want him to walk in and get the wrong idea again! You’ve already made a bad first impression!”

Anthony does not back away, until a _huge_ grin pops on his face. 

“Waiiit…!!! Wait! Wait! Wait! **Doll!!** This weirdo wouldn’t happen t’ be the guy yous was cryin’ about back in The Bronx, now would it!?”

Charlotte’s stomach flips, and she jerks away her face before Anthony could see her blush, but the man does not need to see to know he struck gold!

“Ha **haa!!”**

“Mph… Anthony, too loud…” Molly stirs, her face rolling deeper under the comforter. 

“Whoop! Sorry, baby sistah!”

Charlotte jumps to her feet, making a beeline for the door. “W-Well, I’ll see to your breakfast, haha! I’ll um-- Ask one of the maids to bring you some spare clothes, ok! Take a bath while you have time!”

“Wait a minute, you can’t just leave after spoilin’ something like that!”

Charlotte closes the door and speeds down the hall before he could leave the bed. On cue, Alastor’s head begins to bob from the bottom of the stairs, his footfall heavier than usual. Compassion slows her approach, already seeing his eyes darkened. 

“Oh, Al…”

His smile remains, chuckling knowingly when he bows from the waist. He’s in his casual wear, a red vest over a white shirt and dark brown trousers. Though his wear reminds his duties are postponed, he still holds a professional air, hands behind his back and acknowledging royalty. “Did you sleep well, Princess?”

Charlotte shakes her head. “I told you to call me Charlotte when we’re alone.”

“Well…” He gestures his chin behind her, and she immediately understands. Shooting back a glare at Anthony, who stares back with an impish grin, he launches back into his room with a guffaw! She presses a hand to her temple. Anthony is going to milk this revelation with every opportunity he can find!

Alastor chortles. “Well, the manor will be a little livelier, so maybe it’s not _all_ bad.” 

“Until we break it to daddy, we shouldn’t be too sure.” Her heart pangs at the heavy eyelids, guilt prompting her approach. “You can sleep a little longer, you know?”

“It’s difficult to sleep when I’m already awake, Charlotte.” 

“Well, I suppose just try to sleep earlier today. That does remind me. Considering we already agreed we’ll be staying here for your day off, maybe if things go smoothly, we can share dinner out in the garden.”

“I’m sorry, but I have a prior engagement then.” 

“Hm? Oh! That’s right!” Charlotte forgot he’s seeing Mr. Kvalheim at the Scarlet Letter tonight. “I never had the chance to ask you last night, but do you know Mr. Kvalheim? I was watching you two interact, and you two chatted like old friends.”

He pauses tiredly. “You could say that. Both of us used to live in Nawlins.” Charlotte smiles. He always said anyone who described New Orleans as ‘New Orleans’ is not a true native. He took that to the heart, as silly as she thinks it sounds. “He wanted to catch up on old times, so I’ll be joining him.”

“Well, you’re welcome to invite him to the manor, if he would like to visit.”

“No, I don’t think I want him to know where I work.”

He said it so quickly, she reels. Alastor shakes with laughter.

“I take it you're a fan of his work?” 

The bulging eyes give him all the indication he needs, and he feels his smile grow bigger; though not in benevolence. Her squirms always amuse him.

“Well, now I most _certainly_ cannot extend an invitation! He’ll whisk you away.”

“Alastor!” She fumes. “No, he won’t! I truly meant it for your own wellbeing!” She crosses her arms, poised even when riled. Those assumptions need to end. “He’s a friend of yours, so I thought it would be something you would like. Besides, consider it for Daddy. He’s probably going to blow a gasket after breakfast, so I’m sure meeting an actor he likes might help ease the tension.”

Alastor raised a brow, now more certain this was a ploy to fulfill a young fan’s fantasy, but perhaps, she sincerely wants to appease her father after the dangerous stunt she pulled. At this point, Alastor can only move forward. Clearing his throat, he adjusts his bowtie.

“We will see after tonight. Though I sincerely assure you, Charlotte,” He tries not to savor her name on his tongue, “the _last_ thing I want is for the past to come back to haunt me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bible verse used was John 15:13 KJV
> 
> 1920s slang (not a lot today!)
> 
> Beanshooter: gun 
> 
> Bumped: killed
> 
> Cheaters: glasses
> 
> Cat: man
> 
> take any wooden nickels: Do something stupid.
> 
> Goons: henchmen to the mafia
> 
> Trap: mouth


	8. The Mississippi Bad Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost Boys!  
> The world is our oyster,  
> the critters and gators our bawds and toys!
> 
> He sang,  
> A king to his wallowing slaves.  
> he despised, brandishing claw and fang
> 
> Lost Boys!  
> They fought and laughed  
> Until the blood destroyed the devil's ploys.
> 
> Written by WifeoftheSoulless (Shout out to @Atriacreations for allowing me to use the moniker 'Mississippi Bad Boys' for this chapter!)

Galloping steeds hail the emerald sprouts of the May fared trees, evasive adolescent squirrels across the forest floor from weaving hooves. The rider is stable, his eyes the cool of the autumn leaves’ chill, an eagle’s precision to the buck’s escape. His rifle steady under thunderous equine, his body fluidly flows to a centaur's stride as the trigger sways. 

_KER-POW!!_

The buck collapses, nose first into red-berry shrubbery with a heavy _thud._ Pulling back on the Paint’s reins, Alastor exhales the last of his paced breaths, a gloat uplifted to the rider who arrives a second too late behind him. His blond hair is out of place from a carefully combed couffer, annoyed gaze on his lost kill lying dead. 

“Oh, _fuck_ you.”

“Blame it on your awful shooting, sire _._ ”

Alastor leans over Dazzle’s saddle, chuckling. Charlotte’s assumptions proved correct to predict her father would ‘blow a gasket’, but Alastor knows how to corral wild cattle; or expel the king’s wrath to a fellow hunter’s invitation. On the backs of the royal steeds, Razzle and Dazzle -- courteously named for Charlotte’s love of the theatrics-- both men reload their rifles, bullets discarded by the cock the bolts.

“Well, your _conk_ no longer looks like it's ready to pop off your neck.”

“Don’t get too cozy. I’m still thinking about blowing your head off for not throwing those two into the traps. _Butt me!”_

His horse paralleled beside the king’s, the butler pulls out a silver case of cigarillos from his inner pocket. A _Deck of Luckies_ wouldn’t do much to sooth Lucifer’s finer palette. Alastor’s zippo prepared, Lucifer inhales deeply, smoke carried away with the dandelion seeds swept in the winds. 

“Your daughter was quite convincing.”

“That’s my Apple for you!” He answers, crestfallen. “But for Pete’s sake, that she convinced _you_ makes me wonder about your long term usefulness, Alastor.” The _gasper_ teeters between his lips, deepening his grimace. “I don’t need _you_ to fall for that girl’s cute face, fluttering lashes, and soft, sweet voice.” Alastor would have rolled his eyes at a father’s doting, but he can hardly disagree. “You're my last battalion against those womanly charms! Not to remind you that Don Henroin’s _children_ are the ones she’s harboring in _my house!_ ”

“Not looking forward to another visit from him?”

“I threatened to blow his brains out the last time we spoke and feed you the remains.”

He lights his own cigarillo with a chortle. “I found my appetite for human flesh was just a passing curiosity. Wasn’t as appetizing as it looked, so you can throw them to the pigs.” The metallic _clink_ of the zippo echoes through the forest.

“Now that’s disappointing! And here I was ready to brag about how I have my own personal cannibal!”

“You still can. It’s not exactly ‘untrue’ at this point.”

They load the buck on Alastor’s horse and spur the stallions to a walk. The hunt greatly improved the king’s mood, enough to resume leisure conversation concerning Alastor’s dinner appointment. Unsurprisingly, he is ecstatic! Lucifer is as much a lover of the theater as his fellow employee, though Alastor does not share his enthusiasm for the _petting pantry._

“Why not invite him to the manor instead? Why wait for a good _panther’s piss_ after dinner when the dive opens? It tastes wonderful with a medium-rare steak, and with this baby,” he swats the carcass beside him, “you’ll have the finest cut while going _on a toot!”_

“I wouldn’t taste a thing _jingle-brained,_ your majesty _._ That would be a waste of a good drink and a good steak. Can’t have too much of a good thing.” Alastor shrugs, smoke trailing through his nostrils. “Besides, I would like to keep this a private matter. I don’t want my workplace to intermingle with my personal affairs.”

“Oh come now, think of it as a favor for an old friend! If we’re lucky, you're scouting out a good suitor for my darling daughter. Who better than a practitioner of the arts like my beautiful wife?” 

“I wouldn’t recommend Mr. Kvalheim…” His carefully practiced joviality won against the hard edge in his throat. “Actors are never what they seem. Especially the world-famous ones.”

Alastor is inclined to agree, however, about Queen Lilith. Long before her coronation, she was an opera singer, the very embodiment of a siren’s song in each vocal with the visage to match in unparalleled beauty. Many a singer envied and sought to impersonate her, and one was nearly successful. A certain young dame from his youth. 

“Princess Charlotte’s been looking forward to hearing her mother’s return performance, but considering our new ‘guests’, do you feel at ease with her majesty performing still? You know how slick the mob can be.”

Oh, please! He’d know I’d massacre his posse if he tried.” He answers triumphantly.

“Just _peaching_ , sire. Did you ever think, perhaps, Princess Charlotte should start performing?”

Lucifer does not have time to answer when, without warning, Razzle begins to knicker, hesitation in his hooves stomp. The act agitates Dazzle to rear, but Alastor pulls on the reins before he’d allow the steed to rebel.

“Whoa… Whoa…” Lucifer brought his horse to settle when he looks up with an astounded curse. Alastor follows the king’s line of sight, and the horses’ reactions are quickly justified.

A tint of orange catches the sunlight, tufted and too out of place to be a flower. From behind another tree, they find a red-headed, young man hanging upside down near a tree, his leg caught at the knee by a thin, metal wire. The bloody swell of his shin indicates he’s been there for hours. Alastor looks down, a glimmer fallen out of reach of the unusual catch. A _gat._ Alastor’s heart races, his smile stretched wider. Guiding Dazzle toward the body, he _fingers_ for a pulse around his neck. Barely alive. Whatever forces are moving are doing so in his favor, for this sets a new idea to make the first move tonight.

“Well, that’s new.” Lucifer’s spiritless sigh sparks a laugh from Alastor. 

“Not for a mongoose responsible for the snakes.” 

____________________________________

  
  


Alastor helps himself to a cup of warm java, thanking the waitress with a nod. He wears his dark brown suit, his better features prominent in his chest and legs. The amber speckle in his eyes pops under his brushed locks, polished finish leaving his forehead bare, save for a single, rebellious hair fallen from the mold. He still recalls the fluttering stare from the princess, her stunned silence still filling him with pure satisfaction staring back at him in his mug. 

_I can wear this on my next day off if you wish?_ He teased. He still chuckles at the memory of her response, a garble of sounds before she finally settled on reprimanding him. Oh, he will _certainly_ wear this suit on their outing.

With a sip of the brew, he resisted reaching for his hidden flask. He considers perhaps the king had a point to indulge in some whiskey if to curb Alastor’s vexation, but to drink his own _bootleg_ would snub a nose at the establishment. He may not like the company he is to entertain, but he’s always detested rudeness. Once Vox enters his periphery, he comes to his feet with a welcoming bow. 

“No need to be so formal with a fellow denizen of the bayous, old friend!” His cool smile grows significantly when he shakes Alastor’s gloved hand.

“Good heavens, you still wear those?”

A wry grin responds. “Some things never change, unlike you. You’ve aged gracefully.”

“You look stronger.”

“My job comes with a few labors.”

Vox takes out a case from his inner pocket, confirming Alastor was right to request the smoker’s balcony. The actor had yet a moment to place a cigar between his lips before Alastor already snaps open his zippo, so swift Vox stares at the flame in a daze. With a chuckle, he tokes a few puffs before he settles into his seat, offering a roll to his companion.

“Thank you, but I had one this morning.” He declines. 

“Of course.” The case returns into his pocket, and Alastor observes the polished metal hidden in his holster belt.

_Well, that’s interesting._

“Do you work near Hollywood?”

“I do, but not quite for the sort of celebrities you are used to.”

“What celebrities?”

“The political kind.” Alastor shrugs a hand. 

Vox’s lips purse. “What do you do now?”

“I work as a butler.”

Vox’s eyebrow quirks. “A butler?” He hears the pique of a condescending tone but remains unfazed. “I would have thought you would be something more… glamorous during your hiatus.”

“Oh, but it _is_ glamorous, old friend. I’m in charge of the food, I book the best venues; I am even allowed secrets no mere human is entrusted. It’s kept _me_ preoccupied for over ten years, and that’s something no job has ever done for me ever. Even as a radio host, the dribble I had to broadcast became so painfully predictable. It’s why I opted for the horror shows.”

“But not now?”

Alastor shrugs. “I had my fun, ol’ sport. I have my hobbies, and I enjoy the company of my coworkers and employer.” He does not lie. The plan will lead to his eventual retirement, but he truly enjoys the company of those he works alongside, _and_ whom he works for, even the king who blackmailed him. The time simply rears an opportunity to turn it around on Lucifer. “It was time for me to move on.”

Vox begins to speak, but is interrupted by the appearance of the waitress, her pen ready for their order. Alastor watches Vox’s expression carefully rate the young woman with a raking perusal, and she immediately recoils with shy embarrassment. Alastor keenly notes this is not simply speculation of a man’s baser instincts. Many a time, he’s seen low-life scum licentiously examine the queen and even Charlotte, but Vox’s eyes are calculative; like he appraises an item based on its rarity. 

“She’s not on the menu, tiger. Settle down.” Alastor responds in good humor, but truthfully, a twist in his stomach grows when he recalls the same look was directed to Charlotte last night.

The girl shyly writes down their orders. A venison steak for Alastor without an appetizer, leaving Vox to choose garlic-brushed frog legs for them with a fillet mignon. Alastor laughs.

“You used to hate frogs legs!”

“I found the appeal after I moved from Nawlins.”

“I’ve been telling you, ol’ sport!”

“You’ve told me lots of things.” The inflection piques curiosity, but Vox only waves a hand. “But truly, Alastor, you don’t miss any of it? Being recognized, showered with gifts from your fans? Winning the eye of one of the most renowned singers in California?” He smirks, watching Alastor’s expression for anything under the perfect smile. “Come on! You cannot have forgotten about Mimzy!"

“I’m sure there’s not a soul alive who could forget a voice like hers.” 

“Have you heard the recent news on our little songbird?”

“Last news I’ve heard, her husband died of the pandemic a little over a month ago, and she became the sole owner of his cabaret and casino, The Birds of Paradise.” The response is lackluster, and Alastor makes no effort to feign interest. He truly has no real interest in what became of her outside the news.

Vox snorts. “Does that not seem interesting to you? You two used to be close!”

“That was before she overstepped some boundaries.” He sighs. “For all the assets she provided as a talented performer, she lacked dignity and self-respect.”

“Ah, but you couldn’t blame her for vying for your attention, Alastor! You were always swarmed with fans!”

“There’s a great difference between jealousy and delusion. My mother was right to disparage her.” Eyes roll, but his smile remains intact. He grows bored of the bating. “Is there a point to why you invited me out, Mr. Kvalheim? The last time we spoke was not on very good terms.”

At last, Vox’s smile grows malicious, a more characteristic expression Alastor had long grown accustomed to. Alastor recognizes the pride of one who won a game long extended its completion _,_ one Alastor had forgotten about; or truly, put out of his mind when the wrong _person_ was involved.

“I’ve always liked that about you, Alastor.” He inhales, white trailing from his lips like a dragon pausing its flaming breath. “Haven’t you thought about getting into it again? If you wanted, I can easily pull some strings. Given you’re not rusty of course! And better,” Vox shrugs, oozing with arrogance, “You need to understand, I haven’t met anyone as influential as you were, even amongst the cats of this joint! Just a bunch of _Dumb Doras_ and _bufoons_ who can’t think beyond a camera. Any moment I feel I’ve met a _cat_ with enough gumption, he cracks under pressure.”

Vox gestures across the table. “Alastor, you’ve got the stuff! The picture-show is the next big thing, and there’s been talk about experiments of picture-shows being played in the living room! Word around the grapevine says it will be called ‘television’. If that takes off, you could possibly become the very first television host!” Vox leans back, white smoke expelled toward the setting sun’s tropical glow. “Families from San Francisco could watch what’s going on in New York right now! You would be apart of history!”

“Under _you,_ I assume?”

“ _Now, you’re on the trolley!_ Alastor... “ His arms spread, and Alastor momentarily can picture him in the place of Yeshua in the portrait of ‘The Last Supper’. He bites back a snort. “Come on! You can’t tell me you don’t miss the fame? Hollywood, Alastor! It may not be Nawlins, but it's a place where dreams become reality! You could make a comeback! You’d make bigger bucks and **more!** You could be my partner, like old times.” 

“We were never partners.”

“But no one’s pushed me as hard as you have!”

Alastor has to rethink his earlier comparison to the Catholic artistry. His arms wide and broad grin does not represent a symbol of self-sacrifice and unconditional love, but a Venus flytrap awaiting its next meal. He already had a hinting suspicion this was going to be anything _but_ a nostalgic dinner, but this is quite pathetically humorous on Vox's part.

“I can make it happen for you. Just say the word! Imagine the papers: ‘The Radio Demon's Return’!”

Alastor does not respond, thoughts on the days he was the word on the street, the cream of the crop. He had been fiery, ambitious, popular, and he milked it for all it was worth. There is a method to Vox’s offer, and one Alastor quickly deduces. 

When Alastor had been the pinnacle of excellence, Vox made it a personal vendetta to surpass him. A young actor whose ambition oozed on the Saenger and Orpheum stages. He was unpredictable in his roles, playing the humble stable boy who dreamt of a higher life, or the war-torn hero who was plagued by the shadows of the past. Before Alastor became a radio host, he once acted on those same stages, but the berth between them had been too large even then. Vox breathed life into his protagonist, but it was Alastor who embodied the gimp of an old injury the war hero gained from a shot in the trenches. Vox projected the olden woes of his shadows, but Alastor put faces on each of the phantoms, whether there were two or three and if one wore a funny hat at tea time. 

Parts Vox fought to achieve under tireless weeks of practice, Alastor merely had to hone in an hour. He was always chosen as the lead, and Vox, often gifted the secondary role. The theater was cherished salvation from the gruel of reality for both young men, but Alastor mastered the stage. He was the director, the producer, the set designer, and the orchestra, and finally, the protagonist. The whole theater ran by his script, even the laughter evoked from the audience. He swooned all by his songs, and the lights came on by a single snap of his finger _._ He was without blemish, impervious to all who sought his downfall. Alastor knew Vox hated him for it. He felt the green-eyed monster watch from afar, up-close, on stage. He _relished_ in the bubbling envy, and wondered how far he could push Vox until he _snapped._

Even then, Alastor never saw him as an equal, but a starving animal he endlessly tempted with a piece of meat dangling at his nose. 

_Yet…_ He also _cared._ In a strange way, he looked after the dark-haired _hooligan_ who turned to the craft to escape. Alastor was the only one who could take care of his lonely mother, and Vox had no parents to turn to. A couple of delinquents who provoked the gators with all but their thin limbs. Sometimes, they hunted rabbits, raccoons, _something_ to entice the scaly reptiles to battle one another for a tiny slab.

He knows Vox well enough to see the repercussions of the agreement. He would be given the ultimate satisfaction of offering mercy to someone he considered his rival, making him obligated to the hand that feeds. The ultimate conclusion of a game that began at the bayous of New Orleans. A passing thought entertains the notion of pulling out the revolver resting in Alastor’s own holster, a precaution he took after Anthony proved himself a threat. He could complete what he set out for in Baton Rouge, when Vox finally snapped. He decided on an awfully _unethical_ method to achieve his goals, one which was to earn him a bullet to the head that night; before he was distracted by Charlotte’s kidnapping. 

_Charlotte…_ Alastor’s fingers twine before him, looking out to the waning bustle below the balcony. The lanterns begin to light, the stores beginning to lock up. Soon, the speakeasy will be open for business. The offer is a temptation. He _does_ miss the days' people would tune in to hear his voice just to distract themselves from the daily mundane, but Charlotte’s presence had always given him a new _perspective_ as a caretaker _._ Charlotte’s fiery, charitable spirit is a fragrance. She confronts his way of thinking, but never unkind or patronizing. Normally, he found saints and martyrs laughably annoying, but Charlotte has always _intrigued_ him. Maybe if he accepted, he wouldn’t have to wonder if he had to snuff out her light by his own hands the deeper in this rabbit hole she traversed. 

_“Alastor, If you were going to hurt me, you would have already done so.”_

_How are you so sure, Sweetheart?_ Alastor sighs a soft laugh. He knows himself far too well. “Sorry, but my one and only love will always be the radio, ol’ sport.” The satisfaction of Vox’s vexation strangely tastes gray. He honestly doesn’t care. 

Their plates are wheeled near, the frog legs presented elegantly on long porcelain plates. Once the waiter refills Alastor’s coffee and Vox’s water, they are left alone.

 _“_ Mr. Kvalheim… Vox _…_ the world is a stage and the stage is a world of entertainment; But I have always been the one to create my vision in the shadows. I like my privacy. I always have. I lose the mystery if everyone knows what their favorite radio host looks like. It’s sort of… a relief,” He purses his lips, “to not have my weekends lost to buffoons who are trying to ride my coattails to glory.” He smugly watches Vox’s jaw tense. “That being said, there was an appeal to knowing my absence was felt in Louisiana, in California. Hell, I was pleased to know even New York mourned me. I’ve begun a new game, and until I see to its end, I have no interest in taking your offer.”

Vox stares long, composed, the cigar forgotten between his fingers. 

“Your frog legs are going to get cold.” 

After he shakes himself from his daze, they pause their conversation to eat. As expected, the dish is exquisite! Even Vox seems to have forgotten his momentary shock for the herbal essence he could taste on his pallet. Too quick an experience, they’re left with empty plates to resume. 

“You may not have another opportunity like this, Alastor. You’re clinging to the past. You best start _knowing your onions._ ”

“On the contrary, chap,” Alastor leans back in his seat. “I’m settled in the present while piecing together my future. It’s just different from yours.”

Vox leans over, his frown lifted with a knowing smirk. “...That young dame you showed up with last night… She wouldn’t happen to be part of that future, would she?”

Alastor tenses, his smile flickered. “What dame?” He fibs.

“Don’t give me that. I didn’t drink a drop of moonshine to miss that blond beauty you were sweet on last night.”

“Ah… you are talking about my _employer.”_ He emphasizes, brow lifted to affirm Vox’s suspicions inaccurate.

“Yes, yes, I remember! But even with Mimzy, you would hardly give her as much attention. Even with Rosie!” Alastor’s breath remains steady, but he can’t help when his eyes sharpen. “I’ve known you long enough, Alastor, to recognize that _tomato_ has a bit more significance than just merely your employer, doesn’t she?”

“You’re seeing things, my good fellow. I’m not one to fraternize with my own coworkers, let alone my boss.” The butler brushes the fabric of his glove between his fingers, his smile intact, but his head buzzes from the rudely _invasive_ inquiries. 

Vox continues, his smirk now wider. 

“I’ll bet a grand she doesn’t know what you used to do, right? And the sort of meat you threw them gators?”

Alastor tilts his head maliciously, meeting Vox’s smile with his own. A jackal’s smirk meeting a gator’s. “What makes you think I’m not going to do the same to her?”

Vox blinks, pleasantly surprised as an eyebrow bows. “Still sending them off to the _Big Sleep_?”

“As long as the mafia and their vermin breathe air, Vox… I’ll water this earth with their blood until all of Hollywood _swims_ in the filth it protects.”

Vox leans back, tracing a finger over his lips; like he backs away from a threat directed to _him._ “...Now, that’s a shame, a beauty like that. Is she a mobster’s daughter? She looks awfully familiar.”

“... She’s… a unique _brand.” It pays to chase off paparazzi from the premises,_ Alastor chuckles, but he wonders how long it’ll be before someone takes a successful photo of her face. _“_ You know to keep your distance when I have my eyes set on a goal. But Vox...” The actor tilts his head to listen. “A word of this to anyone, and you know you’re as much of a deadman as any _trouble boy_ that crosses my path.” 

“Hey, come on. It’s _jake!_ We looked out for one another, and that ain’t gonna change!” 

“Oh, but I wonder, Vox. I wouldn’t have ended our game so abruptly if a certain rule hadn’t been ignored.”

Vox frowns, but he is, after all, an actor. An actor knows his cues, the lines by which a practiced reaction had to replace his true thoughts. “What rule?”

“You know.”

Vox sighs, cigar waved impatiently. “Enlighten my memory, sport.”

Alastor leans in, his smile now crooked and whisper full of venom. “Who else but you could have involved my _mother,_ Mr. Kvalheim? Tell me who?”

___________________________________

  
  


As Alastor expected, Vox confessed he knows nothing. After a tense meal, Alastor stands as soon as he takes the last bite of his venison. He wants to go home and exert his frustrations on the young man he left in the dungeons. He might have awakened from his coma by now.

“It was a pleasant evening, Vox, but I lost the desire to stay for that _jorum of skee_.”

“Hang on!” Vox demands, annoyance edged in his voice. “I’m not going let you go that easily. There’s something I want you to see. Take a _quilt,_ but at least stay long enough for me to show you.”

The tension in his jaw aches, but he remains, mind elsewhere to stave the nerves. He is actually glad when the hour crept at last to the speakeasy’s opening, but as is the custom of indulging in illegal moonshine, they were discreet when the _whisper sister_ walked with a hunched step. To Alastor’s surprise, Vox requests the table on the bottom floor where the band plays. He half expected he wanted a box, or the balcony above the dancefloor.

“Do you still intend to offer again, even knowing my answer?” Alastor boredly leans against his knuckles, lethargically sipping on his whiskey. 

“Don’t you remember? I have my mind set on something, I won’t stop until I achieve it.”

“We do share that in common. I have my pieces set already, Vox. I’ll repeat you’re wasting your time.”

“Oh, but what I brought might make you take on a _new_ game, Alastor. You must at least hear me out. Achieving all I have without you to push me, no one was worth the effort. It was like I was a giant and the rest of the world was a bunch of ants. I’ve gained countless connections, and I have a business whom I entrust with a partner or two when I must go away for rehearsals. You will be meeting one of them tonight.”

“Is that what you wanted to show me? One of your business partners?” His eyes roll. 

Vox impishly smirks. “That and a performance you won’t forget.”

On cue, the band begins to play, the crowds beginning to silence as couples are quick to rush to their tables. Clarinets strain, the piano twinkles, and the oboe mourns. Alastor looks into his copper reflection, mind emptied with the slosh of a good _panther’s piss_.

Until he hears _her._

His eyes snap up, the glass tight in his grip. 

Even with the new weight on her proud stature, she stood with elegance of a crane, draped in crimson and gold to match the accents of the walls and chandeliers. Her white skin glitters under the spotlight as her painted lips presses sensually to the microphone, beads dancing at her ankles, satin red shoes elevating her generous curves heavenward. Against the golden curtains, she is surrounded in riches, her pale locks curled into angelic loops that framed her flawless face. Even from where they sit, her eyes beam like rubies, lashes to rival the ebony of a crow's jeweled wing.

Vox looks back, satisfied to see Alastor had been surprised by his partner’s appearance, if with a few flutters of the eyes. 

There stands Mimzy Lenore Cardinal, a crown jewel of Hollywood.

And Alastor’s former fiancee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Butt me!”: “I would like a cigarette.”
> 
> Gasper: cigarette, “fag” (also of the 1920s)
> 
> Petting pantry: a cinema or movie theatre
> 
> Panther piss: whiskey, particularly homemade whiskey
> 
> On a toot: on a bender
> 
> Trouble boy: normally mafia related men
> 
> Jingle-brained: drunk 
> 
> Bootleg: illegally brewed alcohol
> 
> Ossified: drunk
> 
> Peaching - Informing
> 
> Clip - To kill
> 
> “Now you’re on the trolley!”: “Now you’ve gotten it right!”
> 
> Tomato: a woman
> 
> Jake: okay, fine, as in “Don’t worry, everything’s jake.”


	9. Radio Demon Promenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awaken the Gator!
> 
> He sings, and dances, and flings!
> 
> His prey dance along his teeth, 
> 
> afloat on ivory as his laughter rings!

“Mama…?” A tired shadow weighs against Lilith’s immaculate features when she turns to her daughter. Charlotte’s heart falls. Her mother’s new weariness seems much more than overworked stress. Lilith’s smile a transparent plastic, it is a familiar mask Charlotte had long learned to see through. 

“Apple Blossom…” She reaches a hand to Charlotte, her head immobile under Milly’s nimble fingers under her scalp with every pearled pin’s removal from an intricate bun. Slow as she enters, Charlotte sits on the silk ottoman next to her mother’s stool, taking her lithe fingers. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Mom! I’m honestly… more concerned about you.” 

Lilith bites back a sigh when another stream of gold cascades freely, but Charlotte refuses to be intimidated by her annoyance. 

“You came back looking paler than normal! I thought you were going to faint at the door!”

“I was fine this morning.”

“This _morning._ That’s not now!”

“I’m tired. I’ve been at rehearsals all day and the day before. You know how straining they can be.” 

A strange frown crosses her marble features when she quickly shoots out a hand to grab a red handkerchief from her vanity. Lilith restrains two loud coughs, worrying Charlotte all the more as she stares at the little, white bird stitched on the handkerchief's corner. Milly backs away from her queen, the concern on her freckled face mirroring the princess’s. 

“Mom…” 

She stops when Lillith raises a hand, her voice stilled by the regal movement. With dreamlike grace, the queen moves in ivory stillness, whisked in a gallant wave of riches fallen across her shoulder. Strength unwavering, even with her locks half-done in a haphazard array of misplaced pins, the princess begins to believe the ailment is a mere trick of the eye. She watches her mother enviously, admiration undefiled by the mere reminder her mother is still _human._ Still, even spellbound by the striking twilight framed in ebony lashes, the daughter’s heart begs her to remain vigilant of her mother’s state.

“Charlotte… Apple Blossom…” A voice to settle the storms, and her inner troubles silence. Charlotte settles into the ottoman obediently, hands overlapped on her lap attentively. Lilith looks up to Milly, startling the servant to clasp her hands over her chest. “Milly, dear, leave us and bring us some tea. Chamomile with vanilla for me and add cinnamon for the princess.” 

Milly’s black bob shakes when she curtsies, but not before raising a kind smile to Charlotte, one she returns. Once she closes the door behind her, Lilith takes her daughter’s hands, their pale complexions alike as she pulls her to her feet with gentle command. Her smile remains, infectious against Charlotte’s haunted pout, until her rosy lips finally curl up sweetly. 

“There! A smile suits you better, my darling. Now, help me take out the rest? These pearls hurt my head.” 

With shared laughter, the princess releases her mother’s hands to take Milly’s place, combing through Lillith’s vibrant scalp. One pin falls to the vanity, and a rhythm falls between them, a satin hum risen from Lillith’s lips. Oh, how Charlotte’s heart falls victim to its entice, her own hum risen to join the serenade. Harmony strains the walls, Charlotte’s soprano supported by Lillith’s powerful contralto; an eagle’s glide, powerful and protective to the sweeter canary’s dance. 

The aria chases away her thoughts of the new chill she felt in her mother’s hands.

“... Mama?” 

“Hm?” 

“... I’ve been wondering about something dad said. About me getting married to consider my project…”

She meets her quiet stare in the mirror, and Charlotte gathers her courage. 

“... Do you think you could talk Daddy out of it?”

________________________________

**There's many pretty boys in the dancehall every night,**

**But Mister Mister it's you who caught my eye, who caught my eye!**

**If I only had the guts**

**I would tell you right, I would tell you right!**

Vox watches the former radio host’s expression, a victorious drag taken of his cigar. Crowds swoon under the scat’s beckon, cajoles a hardened heart to jig to her hymn. Only one remains guileless of her song, for he knew beyond the voice is a creature who feasts upon the souls of her devotees. Uncertain whether to acknowledge either the wrath or amazement in his chest, Alastor can only stare agape, whiskey precariously hung between his fingers. 

**Watching you swirling girls,**

**From left to right (from left to right)**

**Mister, Mister! Mister, Mister! Mister, Mister! Mister, Mister!**

**It's you!**

**Mister, Mister! Mister, Mister! Mister, Mister!**

Mimzy. His _ex._ Vox’s business partner is his **ex!**

**They say there is plenty fish in the sea**

**But honey I only got eyes for you (you see)**

**The other boys just don't do it for me**

**Couldn't care less about them running after me**

**Even with all their good will**

He watches her gaze fall on him, a flirtatious wink casting a line for a hungry fish. The hook falls flat for an uninterested seabass, however. The amorous attention breaks his stupor, a frustrated pinch of the nose turning away his face. Vox’s company once thought annoying, Mimzy is an entirely different tier of vexation! 

“Of all people…” 

**Even with all their good will**

**They'll never give me that good thrill**

**That very pleasant bone chill**

**That only you seem to can activate**

**Mister, Mister! Mister, Mister! Mister, Mister! Mister, Mister!**

**it's you**

**Mister, Mister! Mister, Mister! Mister, Mister!**

Vox’s smug _button_ tempts some finely tuned _chin music_ , but he opts to sip his whiskey instead to soften the edge. 

“Why is _she_ your business partner?” Mimzy is no _Dumb Dora_ by any means, but her temper makes her a trifle to work alongside. “I would have thought you would have taken the chance and married her, unless you finally became a _wisehead_!”

Vox laughs, nudging Alastor’s shoulder-- He tenses! “Al, she’s a _splendid_ businesswoman, a wonderful singer, and yes, quite the _bear-cat_ in bed.” 

He sneers at the unnecessary revelation. 

“But the _chicago overcoat_ must be the best thing her husband’s ever had _._ She was a terrible wife!” 

“He must have been as terrible a husband if he was enough of a _bozo_ to buy her a _manacle_.”

For a spell, laughter booms between them, witless of the annoyed stare tossed from Mimzy. A fleeting amusement doused by the bitter memories, Alastor places down his cup. To be _spifflicated_ around the singer, he’d be _counting on wooden nickels_ at this point. He should leave now, or count his unhatched chickens and assume this is all Vox holds in a slight of hand. 

“I’m leaving, chap. I’m still exhausted from the other night.” 

He stands from the table, pulling out his pocket watch. 8:30pm. If he checks the forest and the prisoner in the dungeons now, Charlotte might venture to the gazebo if she’s not busy tucking the twins to bed. He smiles at the thought. Her nature would certainly permit it, until he realizes it would be _Anthony_ she would lay to rest. He turns on his heel before Vox’s displeasure is heard. 

“ _Phonus balonus_ , Alastor! Why are you being such a _wurp_? Can’t you at least stay long enough to say hello to Mimzy?”

“I’m afraid I must decline.”

“You’re being an ass. Did something happen between you two that you’re so against it?”

“That’s between us. _If_ there is a reason, Vox. If you stop by again, I come around most Saturdays. Jusqu'à ce que nous nous revoyions, sois bien.” Tipping his hat, he leaves his drink half-empty. “Drinks are on me tonight. Bonne nuit!”

“Ladies and gentleman!”

Alastor _ankles_ toward the stairs, uninterested in Mimzy’s announcement. 

“I wish to welcome our guest of honor!”

He pauses, one foot on the steps when the heat of a spotlight flashes on his back. Confusion freezes his exit, his shadow whimsically outstretched on the rows above him in a white expanse. He feels their eyes, hears their speculative thoughts. 

“You may not remember him, but all of America used to tune in to his radio show for some good ol’ fashion ghost stories and the latest news! He was the cream of the crop! The _cat_ to listen to for a good scare and a good drink. Anyone here remember ‘The Radio Demon’s Voodoo House’?”

The room rolls with applause, and more curious onlookers push to the front. Even the curious, elderly _whisper sister_ makes her way to the wooden railing on the entrance floor. 

Alastor’s fist clenches tight to his back, but his instincts smooth embarrassment’s prick. A soldier knows to study his surroundings of possible threats even amongst civilians, and a chef knows how to embolden his stew’s better features from a culinary disaster. A coy smirk widens when he hears a pair of heels clicking across the dance floor. A marching cadence closer and closer to his back. 

_So, they grew bolder in my absence._ Oh, he knows their game. The ambush already understood, a trill of giggles suppresses between his teeth. If one individual fails, the other flanks his blindside. _Oh, but I am never blind..._

Thrill surges through his body, electrifies his limbs! Oh, he’ll play along! He hasn’t felt this excited to be noticed for _so long!_ Perhaps, the plan is for his reaction or do they seek to vilify him by removing his precious shadows and expose him? Oh, but Vox has forgotten. Seen, or unseen, he is the **better** predator. He simply has to use the least favored method.

Then he hears it. A familiar _whangdoodle_ forces the foot to tap, and his body begins to move to a demon’s allure. _Well, well, well!_ T _hey certainly went all out to make this quite a_ __sockdollager!_ _ The band plays his _theme_ music! People talk feverishly, a buzzing excitement rising into a rhythm of unified hums. 

“Welcome the Radio Demon himself, back from the shadows of anonymity! Or one can say, from the dead! **Alastor Gustave Griffiths!”**

He whips his arms, the actor’s cue struck. At the twist of his heel, the Fedora rips from his head to snap his sight to the ceiling, joyful smile wide and welcoming. The winning smile he once hid behind a radio greets all around him with a booming laugh, the auditorium latched to his cackle. All of it rang like a grandfather clock! Loud and threatening! He can see their realization grow into excitement when a familiar greeting --adjusted for the current location-- rips across the walls in a long, ecstatic bellow! 

“ _Good Morniiii-iiiiing, Los Angeles!!!”_

Men and women come to their feet in an uproar! More than even Alastor expected, an ovation from the dancefloor to the balcony rolls into his ears like a tidal wave. An icon of their childhood, in the prime of their lives, stands in their presence! He was dead, but now he lives! Once thought lost, but now he’s found! He pays no more mind to them, turning his wild eyes toward his childhood ' _friend'!_

_I’m not done yet._

Alastor allows his body to react, long, dancing steps, shoulders rolling and hands shaking. The crowds begin to shriek, heightened by his movements. Mimzy gawks, conceit swallowed by her astonishment when the microphone is plucked from her gloved fingers! Quick to weave the long cord in his fingers, Alastor prances, towering height unhindered. Heels click, toes nimbly tap to the wooden floor in a spin when he pulls the microphone to his lips! Yet instead of a breathless greeting, a sweet, velvety strain weaves across the walls, a spell cast in the minds of young and old to nostalgia’s enchantment.

**At the Devil's Ball!**

A young woman stands to her feet at the rail of the balcony, squealing! Alastor meets her eyes, and winks. 

“It’s really **_him!_ ** That’s his voice **!!** **_”_ **

**At the Devil's Ball!**

Doubters become believers, clapping to the rhythm of the bassoon and drums. The percussion is new to the tune, but Alastor thinks it suits the jolly sound, even a piano’s twinkle adding a few skips to his jig. 

**I saw the cute Missus Devil, so pretty and fat,**

**Dress'd in a beautiful fireman's hat!**

**Ephraham, the Leader man, who led the band last fall.**

**He play'd the music at the Devil's Ball**

**In the Devil's hall!**

**I saw the funniest devil that I ever saw,**

**Taking the tickets from folks at the door**

**I caught a glimpse of my…**

He then gestures for the audience, beckoning the microphone in their direction, to which they all erupt with laughter when a united response echoes! “ **Mother-in-law!!!”** Alastor looks straight to Mimzy. He laughs at her deep grimace, his point understood as he continues!

**Dancing with the Devil**

**Oh! the little Devil**

**Dancing at the Devil's Ball!**

With a swooning vibrato, he raises his hand with a flurry, dramatically bowing to applause when he twists his hat on his chest. He sneaks a gaze to Vox. Even under his impressed smile, the underlying shock is retribution! Did he think Alastor would make a fool of himself, believing his love of anonymity as his crutch? Or is he pleasantly surprised he didn’t lose his edge? The answers can wait.

Mimzy stares widely, her lashes flitting like startled ravens. Did Vox tell him what they intended? As Alastor brazenly welcomes the accolade, Mimzy then understands. To think he would be caught off guard would insult the memory of their past friendship. 

_No. He_ **_improvised!_ ** Annoyance, and relief _,_ swells in her chest. He still knows how to wow a crowd. She hears the table next to her, a man shouting loud enough to his female companion for her to listen.

“I can’t believe it! To think he’s been right under our noses all this time!! I’ve seen him come here for years!”

His female companion, more likely his wife, responds. “Actually, I had my suspicions! I’m sure he works for…!” 

Mimzy couldn’t hear anymore when someone in the audience whistles, more excited chatter overlapping another. Her jaw clenches. She doesn’t have time for this! She needs to catch him before he disappears again! Her head holds high, even at such a short stature. Her elegance beckons the eye, commands all to watch. Authority in each step, she stands as a pinnacle radiant with confidence, undeterred by the weight which clings to her. All it has done was accentuate her blessed assets, a supple hourglass to those skinny _weak sisters!_ Yet, once she stands under Alastor’s gaze, there is a notable difference of power. Alastor may have been in hiding, but nothing of his boldness seems to have shaven from their last encounter. An old shiver warms her skin.

She raises her hand coquettishly, demanding the microphone back. He snorts, his back turned when he tosses it behind him! 

“Ah!!” Mimzy gapes, quick to snatch it before it could hit the floor, sputtered words echoing when it fumbles in her hands. She nervously grins, mic up. “Ah! Uh! Well, _there_ you have it, folks! The Radio Demon in the flesh, and as talented as the days of yore! Give him another round of applause and for the band tonight for all the fond memories!” She turns to see he is still walking away, although not without acknowledging the fans again when another explosive applause rises. 

He never looks back to her.

The day he broke off their engagement, he never looked back either. The sting had dulled significantly, but seeing him _ankle_ again, the dusty pain throbs anew. Even now, the power he still holds over her is a phenomenon.

Quickly forcing the microphone into the hands of an unsuspecting musician, she quickly follows after him. For once, she is thankful when fans serve as an obstacle, slowing his escape to the door. 

“Alastor…” Her voice empty of her inner troubles, she stares into his eyes boldly when he, at long last, faces her. Mimzy gestures for her bodyguards' approach, the crowds forced back by two burly men to finally give the privacy of a long-overdue closure. “It’s been a long time.”

“Mimzy.” He nods, hand to his chest. “That it has. I’m glad to see you doing well. Your performance was lovely.”

“As was yours. But you were about to leave in the middle of _mine_ …”

“I have to head home for an engagement.”

“But you had enough time to give _them_ a show.” She irks, chin to the audience. “I thought you hated rudeness.”

“Not to those who deserve it.” 

_Still a bastard._ Teeth clench, Alastor’s friendly appearance beginning to wear for his smarmy _chinning_. Calm summoned with a small inhale, she plants a smile, her powdered rouge sweetly tilted in the chandelier's glow. 

“Will you stay a little longer to share one more drink then? It would mean a lot to me.”

“I just told you I have to go home, Mimzy.”

“Home…?” She gulps, staggered by a more obvious possibility. Of _course,_ she should have thought of it before! “Do you… have a family?”

“No.”

She expertly hides her relief. “A wife?” 

“No.” Her smirk widens.

_Ever the loner…_

He places his hat back on his head, bowing. “But none of these things are really your business, are they? That was a laughable attempt to embarrass me, don’t you think?”

“It wasn’t to embarrass you. We simply wanted to see what you would do. You often did the same to him… and me.”

He stops himself mid-turn, a single eye glinting under the brim. “Still holding that against me, my dear?” A cluck and chuckle, a tilt of the head bears a remorseless leer. “Is that why you went along with it?”

“No. I simply agreed to play along if he would let me come.”

“‘Let you come’?” His laughs. “What sort of partnership do you have, exactly? A villain and his obedient little henchwoman?”

“A beneficially mutual one!” Her teeth clench. _Calm down_. She can feel her heart pound like a caged falcon!” It would have been rude to join you unannounced during dinner. So, we made an agreement. You dine, I perform, and we have a drink. A win for all of us.” Mimzy shrugs a pout inconsequentially, waving a hand to cool her indignation to each _jape._

Alastor raises his fingers, stopping her from saying any more. “Correction: _you_ will have a drink. I’ve had enough for the evening. Vox already tried to convince me and I rejected it. If you came to add leverage to his offer, save your breath. I’m not interested in joining him, and least of all _, you._ ”

He turns, but Mimzy boldly steps in front of him, pressing a hand to his chest when she moves closer, pressing her ample _bubs_ against his torso. Pretty lashes flutter, daring to meet his eyes once more with a quirk of her brow. She smiles when his body tenses, emboldened when he attempts distance between them. _Well, he’s certainly grown some muscle._

“We don’t have to have a drink, love.” A swing and sway, her hips hypnotize. “I can show you I’ve changed.” A husky whisper, her palm reaches up. Nails pick at his bowtie, the scarlet silk reflected on the black of his strap. “I can show you I’ve been a _good girl.”_

“You _know_ I don’t like to be touched. Or did you _conveniently_ forget again, like many times before?” Alastor backs away quickly, long step easily reaching the third stair to restore copious distance. She can recognize the disapproval in his eyes, narrow and cutting, promising her demise for overstepping herself. “Or do you have another method you want to try like the _last time?”_

 _“I told you I was sorry_ **_!”_ ** Her snarl fully reveals itself, every jab, barb, quip, and _insult_ accumulated across her face and stripping her beauty. “When will you _forgive_ me already _?!”_

“When hell freezes over.” 

He responds so happily, a lilt too wayward of the vile pledge. The chirp catches her off guard, and strangely douses her wrath. She watches him adjust his bowtie, another familiar trait. He is like an old fairytale she cracks open after years of sitting on an old bookshelf. Seeing the insides of its yellow pages is both beautiful and terrifying, an ocean of turmoil and mystery filling her senses with the salt of his physical presence. He wears the same cologne, and yet he smells different. The bayous are gone from his skin, now replaced by the different musk. A coarser essence softened by the smell of fresh sandalwood. 

_“_ I could never tell if you were the hero or the villain, _mon amor…”_

Lips curl, his teeth reflective of hungry fangs. “You could never tell between reality and fiction, _ma chere._ ”

The singer approaches, taking one step on the stairs. Then she _sees_ the **danger,** _feels_ the cold wind of warning burning in his stance. She imagines another step closer would be accurate to a toe stepped into the open jaws of a ravenous beast. Looking back, she sees Vox, who approaches them. She can almost collapse in relief, but she dares attempt to reach out again to Alastor. 

_I may never see him again…_ “We were friends.” She sighs, loud enough for Vox to hear, and he stops behind her, his natural stoicism colored with concern. His support is deeply appreciated, an assistance to face the one man she could _never_ forget, even married to another. “Before we became engaged, Alastor, we were all close! Can’t we start over? It could be like old times. I miss us! I miss when we all used to dance and laugh! When we performed together! Weren’t you happy, too? Don’t you miss _any_ of it?”

He only stares from above, and she doesn’t fight the hand on her shoulder, Vox serving as her anchor against the storming emotions rolling in her chest. The _love_ she still holds for the man she pleas for a long-sought supplication. She does not stop herself, pulling away from the actor to implore once more for merciful reprieve.

“I never stopped thinking about you, Alastor. Not once. I want to start over...”

He says nothing, looking between the two of them. Amused, actually, by the desperation in her movements, especially against Vox. A perfect photograph of the day he broke off their engagement. Vox filled with longing for a girl who did not love him, and the girl who pleaded as her fiance walked away. She should know who he is. How he is. A trait she seems to willingly forget of all the others she chose to remember because she never removed Cupid’s bow from her chest. 

When he turns away from something, he never, _ever_ looks back. Not then, nor now, nor **ever.**

“That’s unfortunate, Mimzy… because I’ve stopped thinking about you the moment I left Nawlins.” 

He leaves them in a quiet stupor when he slips back into his shadows. Back to the place which stirs his blood with excitement. As he passes by, he recognizes the school of paparazzi who turned at the balcony.

_Aw, well._

He'll have to take the long way home.

________________________________

Charlotte paces outside the front door, frantically rubbing her arms. Her eyes are streaked with black tears, her new birthday mascara staining her face into a horror-stricken bedlamite’s. The frantic shouts and rushing feet are heard easily through the doors, a reminder of the atmosphere within the house. She’s too scared to go inside, even to seek out Anthony, Molly, or Vagatha.

Fearful of the reason for the manor’s panic. 

_Oh, please… oh, please, oh, God, please!!_

Her head jerks in the direction of footsteps crunching white pebbles. Does a guard approach for his round? She doesn’t want to go back inside, but she doesn’t want to be seen like this either! She turns to face the wall, face hid behind her hands should he try to see her. 

“Your highness?” 

Her body melts at the welcome voice, and she twists around before she could stop herself. 

“Oh... Alastor!!” She croaks brokenly.

He runs to her side, and she shrinks back, suddenly aware of her tears, yet unaware of the extent of her ruined makeup. She turns her face away, but her body half- turns, subconsciously seeking his comfort. His hand pulls her shoulder to face him fully, but she can’t bring herself to look up. 

“Wait, Alastor, please!” 

Warm fingers curl around her chin. 

The act forces her will into submission, obediently allowing his guidance to lift into the torchlight. She bites her lip, her eyes stubbornly wayward. She does not want to read his expression, search the truth behind his smile. 

“... Please don’t laugh…”

“Charlotte…” Her heart thumps at her name, stilled at the queer tone. One she’s never heard in his voice; then her cheeks are enveloped in the warmest palms. She instinctively jerks, and their eyes meet. His smile remains, yet she can see how his eyebrows knit tightly, wrinkles bundled at the center.

 _Apprehension._ She blinks, eyes filling with a new flow of tears.

“Sweetheart… What’s going on…?”

Charlotte sniffles, her hands lifted to press his palms tighter to her face. She allows him to pull her closer, his thumbs drying new tears. She relaxes, lost in the scent of flora and his natural cologne. Reality is too cruel to tear this moment away from her; And that's when she realizes. 

_I came out here because I was waiting for you... where I feel safest..._

“It’s my Mom. She collapsed. She’s been burning up with a fever!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Button: face
> 
> Wisehead: smart
> 
> Chin music: a punch to the face
> 
> Manacle: wedding ring
> 
> Chinning: talking, smart talking
> 
> Bozo: idiot
> 
> Bear-cat: fierce woman
> 
> Chicago Overcoat - A coffin
> 
> Spifflicated: inebriated
> 
> Taking wooden nickels: “Don’t take wooden nickels!”: don’t do anything stupid
> 
> Ankle: walk
> 
> Jape: smack talk
> 
> weak sisters: weak willed girl
> 
> “Phonus balonus!”: “That’s nonsense!” or “That’s horseshit!”
> 
> Sockdollager: an event or action of great importance
> 
> Wurp: wet blanket or person seen as a buzzkill (see: Debbie Downer)


	10. A Smile Made of Fragments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She laughs with a funeral bell's song
> 
> A false smile hides her unshed tears.
> 
> Your happiness is for what I long, 
> 
> Bequeath to me your sorrow and fears.  
> ____________________________________________________________________________
> 
> If you wish to reach out to me, dm me here or @Wifeofthesoules on Twitter <3

He tries to scoop his arms under her knees and shoulders, but Charlotte rejects, sleepily curling tight into a ball, head back into the seat. 

“No…! Just… Just a little longer...” 

Lucifer pulls back, piteous. She made a nest for herself in the armchair, her food left uneaten on the dresser. Willfully immobile further than beside her parent’s bed, she lays in a wool stole for the second night in a row, a mask over her face.

She had been quarantined for two days once Alastor learned she had been in contact with the queen. Milly, Queen Lillith’s personal maid, remains quarantined along with her husband, Moxxie --the royal tailor. Lucifer returned to the manor rushing like ants, Alastor commandeering every little step in dictatorial direction, thorough to recheck if his instructions were followed to the letter. Any complaints were swiftly dealt a striking glare, full of dark promises. 

“Oh, dear, is the carnival in town? Be sure you bring a generous amount of funnel cake to last the month!” The king teased him; but Alastor’s pause choked the air.

“...Your wife is ill, sire.”

Ever since the royal physician left with grave instructions and medication, the manor has been ominously quiet. Exhaustion was assumed. Prayed for. The answer is a frosty reminder of human frailty, and justified Alastor’s adamance.

Influenza. 

Lucifer fumes. He wants to blame someone. Anyone! Who would be so stupid to spread the pandemic unto his own _wife?!_

A hot Brazilian blend fills his senses, the sudden appearance of a hovering cup o’ joe under his nose. His favorite. Alastor stands quietly beside him, nudges the saucer close when the king sighs. Wordlessly accepting the brew, the two men stand in silence, one’s chest painfully aquiver by the queen’s struggle. The hearth fire fails to chase the cold apprehension when she exhales. 

_Down. A long, uncomfortable pause. Up._

Heavy steps back into his leather chair. Anxiety can make a man pant as though he runs a marathon. Lifting a gaze to his daughter, he muses at the gold draped over her shoulder. Before, he was proud to see she inherited most of his features, but now, just the speckles of his wife’s beauty shine brighter in the flow of her hair and thick lashes fanning the edge of her rosy cheeks. Even behind her mask, anyone could tell she is breathtaking.

 _Charlotte, when did you become so beautiful?_

“I’ll take her to bed, Sire…” Alastor whispers.

“No. I’m the only one I know who is immune. _If_ she’s possibly infected.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Lucifer turns a glare to Alastor’s smile. 

“I’m immune as well.”

Lavender eyes flutter. “Wait, since when?”

He shrugs informally. “Five years ago, when it first came around. Remember when I requested leave for two weeks?”

“You caught it?”

“No. Someone I knew did.”

 _That would explain your reaction earlier._ “A relative?”

“... Someone.”

Lucifer frowns, displeased. “... Do you remember when I asked if there was anyone you were leaving behind when I hired you?”

“I do.”

“.... Did you tell me the truth?”

“Yes.”

Lucifer stares, unblinking at his butler’s ever-present grin. Alastor stares back, cocksure. Ever since Baton Rouge, he’s never been afraid to look at him, the king -- **royalty** \-- in the eye. The king has all right to throw him into the _can,_ or better yet, execute him for the insolence of looking at him as an equal. 

The truth is Lucifer _likes_ Alastor’s gall, and, especially, his ruthlessness. Leaning back, he lays his leg on one knee, chin on his knuckles.

“You know… For as long as you have worked for us, you’re still as fascinating as the night we met. You were such an arrogant ass at the time. Now, you’re a _dapper_ arrogant ass.” The memories are a meager salve, but he will take a meager one over the tension of his wife’s silent war within her body. 

A chuckle “… You have interesting standards to choose an ‘arrogant ass’ as your butler.”

“It’s entertainment at its best, something you can agree with. I remember you told me you didn’t know the first thing as to _how_ to be a butler!”

“Yes, and you were _off on the deep end_ to disagree with me."

He smiles. “How do you feel about it now?”

“I’m still certain I’m quite an unorthodox choice of butler, considering _why_ you chose me.”

A moan tethers their attention, and the conversation wisely ends. Charlotte moves in her sleep, brow wrinkling apprehensively before she settles peacefully. Alastor sighs.

Every attempt to pull Charlotte from her designated seat has been thwarted, but to her credit, Charlotte’s insistence is one Alastor dares admit an understanding; For a moment, he sees himself in her sleepy state _._ She worries for the life of her mother to the point of bedraggled lowing in frightful dreams.

 _Enough._ He looks away when something catches his eye on the queen’s vanity: a red handkerchief folds neatly amongst her show rouges. A white bird stitching hangs on its corner. 

_Now, where have I seen that before?_ Not quite familiar, yet he recognizes it. The queen is known to exchange her handkerchief for a new favorite, so nothing beyond its fine silk and embroidery is particularly unusual; And for whatever reason, its appearance intrigues him. _I will have to ask Milly in the morning if she’s well._

“Alastor.”

“Hm?” 

Lucifer turns toward the fire, and Alastor notes the flames centered in black pupils. A fathomless rage boils in the deep pits, and Alastor fancies if he but pokes him, the man will bring an infernal end to the manor and all of California. He would have teased…

If he too does not feel a similar white-hot furnace aglow at the center of his ribs.

“Is that young man we found in the forest still alive?” 

Alastor leers. “... Yes, sire.”

“... Once this storm passes, we are going on a little trip. He’ll be coming with us.”

He schools his surprise into a quirked brow. “If I may, your majesty, would this have anything to do with why the queen may be sick?”

“... She was assured absolute safety. The opera house where she rehearsed was guarded. Very, _very_ few would have been allowed to be near her. And one of those few is the cause of this. Someone who is to blame did not consider my wife’s life important enough to stay home and **rest** _._ I assume that the young man’s boss may have been in the area. But say that I’m wrong…”

Then he sees him. Beneath the boiling surface of a melted amethyst glows the anger of the true king. An old tingle coils in Alastor, the very same which gave him the rush of a worthy adversary. An accolade of hellfire radiates from his smaller stature, but oh, how much more is the man who has entrapped the Radio Demon for himself.

 _There you are._ The Hunter beneath the devil-may-care facade. 

“Well, we need to make an example of _someone_.” He snarls darkly.

“As you wish.” 

He bows, his smile wider. He’s glad to see the king still retains his bloody streak. What a boring game to play if the unwitting participant doesn’t put up some fight! More than that, Alastor too wishes for retribution _._ By the queen’s ailment, Charlotte is also endangered. Whether she contracts the illness, only tomorrow will tell. Whether she lives or dies, he wants to make an example just as eagerly, and is willing to give up his game piece to warn any who takes the life of the princess too lightly _._

Her life is his **alone!** His to take and to give! He looks at the handkerchief.

Accuses it. 

Another soft sound trickles from the young woman, tethering Alastor’s tender attention. Her neck arches uncomfortably. He leaves her to rest here again, and she’ll be unable to move her own neck. 

“May I put her to bed, your majesty?” 

Lucifer pauses, watchful between his butler and daughter until he waves a dismissive hand. “... Fine. Make sure she falls asleep.”

Bowing his exit, Alastor crouches close, pulling her shoulders under his hand and her knees in his elbow. 

“Mm… no…”

“My lady…”

Her eyes creak open, groggy rebellion arise in bloodshot eyes. Alastor only gathers her into his arms, inattentive to his majesty’s severe glance when he easily bests her in strength and coherence. 

“You won’t be of any help to your mother by getting yourself sick with worry. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

_If tomorrow comes._

“Al… please…” She doesn’t fight, head tighter into his chest, stealing into his aroma. A rhythm beats under his uniform, a lullaby’s heartbeat. _But mom._ “…Daddy…Mom?”

“I’ll stay with her, Apple. Sleep now.”

So, Alastor carries the princess, relying on memory and the dim moonlight streaming into the corridor. Charlotte stirs again, but she instead pulls herself closer, hand pressing his chest. Instinct seizes his body. 

_It’s only her... It’s her…_ For her touch has never been unkind, but habits are certainly a stubborn folk. Sighing, a careful glance lowers to the young woman. The glance becomes a careful stare, a stare becomes desire to remove her mask and see her fathomless beauty under the passing moonlight. These two days, her smile was gone, but now, her cares seem to melt away in sleep.

Something that often eludes him. _What does peaceful sleep feel like?_ He chuckles, somewhat envious when he enters her chambers. 

His shoes clop on a floor of gold and white marble, careful to evade the tea table and gold laden seats in the perfect center of her room. The bed posts rise to nearly graze the high ceiling, white gossamer curtains open to a dusty rose-hued bed. He slips the mask from her face, then lifts open her covers. Moonlight streams through the balcony door, silvers dancing across her black lashes. When her head falls back into the pillows, warmth tickles his cheek, a sleepy sigh feathers his ear.

His chest tightens! A strange summer warms his stomach when he quickly pulls away from her.

 _I’m tired. That’s all._ He applies pressure to his eyes before he allows himself to study her. _Will the morning be kind or shall she join her mother in agony?_

If King Lucifer is proven correct, then once Alastor sets his plan into motion, Charlotte's death is guaranteed simply by her vulnerability. The thought is a bitter gall in his throat, but why hesitate? He planned to do away with her if she proved an obstacle. Is this not an obstruction to his plans? Lilith’s ailment presents an opportunity, and with Charlotte gone, Lucifer would be in the perfect position of brokenness! His life would meet the most satisfactory end by Alastor’s hand. Suicide would be the easiest story and Alastor would be Scott-free of suspicion! One of his brothers will resume the throne and life will go on. 

_But Charlotte’s light would be gone._

Lifting his gloved hand, he examines the bump of stitches in the light. Fingers curl and uncurl, careful not to press tight. He can make a fist well enough with reasonable pressure. He will be glad to hold his knives without conscious adjustment. He should remove them tomorrow the earliest. The quietude left a rebellious thought to sprout, taunting a vague truth yet to be discovered when he crushed the fine China one morning.

 _Why was_ _I so angry that day?_

His pride is a flawless smile, welcome disposition placating his power over his subjects, royal or peasant. The mystery which bade his anger’s unpredictable growth nettles. Yet, the kindness in her grasp resurfaces a pleasant memory. She was fearless and gentle, coaxing him to stay in her caress.

He looks up, caught once more by her skin’s glow under starlight. His skin still tickles by the phantom breath from her lips. Her bosom rises and falls, soft as the snow-capped hills in the winter’s veil, a sliver of hair between her lips. Prompted near, he gathers her soft locks at her scalp, combing it behind her ear, the wayward stray pulled from her coral lips. His thumb lingers on her cheekbone, but his gloves leave something to be desired. 

_What does her skin feel like?_ Her face is clear of the makeup smudges. A whisper tugs his mindless touch to drift, to savor. The back of his fingers trace toward her jaw, dip to trail the skin of her throat until he ends at the soft of her clavicle. Her neck pale under a brushstroke of ivory, her perfume cajoles him. Life pulses under his knuckles. 

He much prefers her alive. He much prefers her smile… 

_How can I return your smile?_ Alastor tenses, his throat cleared when he recoils. He adjusts his diacles again, suddenly aware of himself. _What am I doing_? 

Another thing Alastor takes pride in is he’s never had unrestrained urges! Nothing like _this_. Even engaged to Mimzy, he was never bothered to touch her like a lovelorn fool, nor was he tempted! 

He turns on his heel with a huff. Of _course_ he’s not acting himself! He needs sleep. Breathing in deeply, he locks away his wandering thoughts and briskly exits the bedroom. He will check on the prisoner’s wounds first. If he’s awake, he’s undoubtedly hungry. 

_I needn’t rush. Opportunities will keep coming._

As Alastor makes his way toward the dungeon, Lucifer holds tightly to his queen’s cold hand. His eyes remain on her chest, pleading it to rise again.

“Darling, remember you still have a show to perform!” He laughs, the dread mounting his shoulders. “You know our Charlotte’s been looking forward to it! You know Alastor suggested she perform with you? I think it’s a grand idea! You and she always sang so beautifully when you brushed our little apple’s hair! I always thought so. And don’t forget,” He flings a finger upright, “Grandchildren! You need to watch me annoy our little girl to death about grandchildren! We need to spoil them. Make Charlotte’s life absolutely miserable by letting them get away with murder. Maybe, _literally!”_

His smile trembles. The witching hour’s arrival shatters the masquerade’s merriment. 

_“_ So, please…” Both hands cup over her fingers, pulling them to his trembling lips. “Please, stay. Stay. Stay with us… Stay with me. Lilith?” 

Still. So, very still. The room grows dim, the hearth neglected until the last ember, at last, snuffs its ruby radiance.

“Lilith…?”

  
  


________________________________

  
  


Charlotte awakens to a knock on her door, the hour’s announcement in golden rays hid beyond the trees outside her window. When was she escorted to her room? Another knock, and her body rises. 

“I’m coming…!” She rasps, coming to her feet when she reaches for her robe, until she realizes she’s still fully dressed from the day before. “Oh?” Shaking her head of lingering sleepiness, she runs to her door. 

“Daddy?” Lucifer stands silently, not a goofy grin alight nor a sparkling eye to greet. A stony presence stands at her door, with Alastor behind him. She looks between them, unable to hide her heavy breaths, even though news has yet to be uttered. “... Is mom...?”

“Are you feeling well?” Charlotte looks to Alastor. “Do you feel lightheaded? Feverish? Are your sinuses clear?”

“Alastor.” Her father gnashes.

“It’s alright…” There is a tension she wants to dispel with a voice of thunder, but for everyone’s peace of mind, she answers the butler. “I'm _berries_ … Tired, but _berries_. But what about Mom? And Milly and Moxxie?”

She watches her father’s features darken. “Milly and Moxxie contracted the pandemic as well. They’ve been quarantined in their room in the meantime and will remain isolated for two weeks.”

The longer her mother’s mention remains silent, dread grows. At last, impatience cracks beyond composure, brokenness steeped in a voice aquiver. “Please, tell me if mom’s okay!” 

The pair remain silent. A silence is more tangible than the warmth of the rising morn, more heavy than the weight of pearls she removed one by one from her mother’s radiant hair. The desire to know falls away to the desire for oblivion.

“.... Apple Dumpling…”

It was a crack of crystal, a clap of lightning before the sound buckles her knees. The atmosphere presses in, her balance destabilizes to unsteady ground. Arms catch her descent, a firm chest pillowed into her face as a cradling hand cups her scalp. Pressure builds in her throat, a gasp unable to breathe in or out. 

Arms gather her into a strong chest, nose deep into her yellow halo. Dew crystallizes from his eyes, dancing through her strands like gypsy’s coins. 

“Papa… She can’t be...” 

“Come, come… let’s sit on the bed…” She can’t find the strength to disobey, yet she’s quick to look back behind her father’s shoulder. She sees Alastor’s back, walking to the opposite hallway when she is guided back to her bed.

Lucifer pulls her tight to his side when her tears silently fall. She can barely understand anything he tells her. Just noises of how they’ll be leaving soon to make preparations for her mother’s funeral. He presses her into his chest, and she clings, shaken.

The next morning, they prepare to leave. She doesn’t remember when the hours passed. She sees Alastor talk to Molly outside her room before he makes his way to her door, smile still just as large. 

“We’ll be a few days, your highness. I made you some beignets to eat for dessert tonight.” He comes close, hand cupped over his lips, beckoning her with a finger. She leans close to listen, somewhat surprised by the gesture. “If you eat them for luncheon, I won’t tell.” He winks, grin broadened. 

A meager smile rises, a small reward. “Maybe I will. Remember, her favorite flowers were hydrangeas.”

“What sort of royal butler would I be if I didn’t know that?” He laughs, but her smile can only hold for a moment. “...When we return, I hope I can put a smile back on your face.”

Those words nudge softly in her heavy heart, but her father approaches before she can respond, a kiss on her cheek before they walk toward the front door. She watches them from her window until they drive out the gate, and they disappear.

For three days, the food, spiced by accomplished chefs, simply descends into her throat like a tasteless bowl of mush. She simply acts out of habit, the servants like wind-up toys to their duties. The murmurs are a white noise of a radio’s warbling channel, untuned and oddly comforting. Finally allowed out of her room, she checks on Milly and Moxxie at a distance, royal nurses weaving in and out to their rooms. Vagatha accompanies her, a maternal role now assumed, as Charlotte gives what little comfort she could with some tea and her favorite orange juice.

Molly and Anthony make themselves available through the days, the stables accessed where the _baby grand,_ Husk, grooms the horses. Charlotte finds Anthony’s flirtations humorous, especially wasted when the stable-man almost _clocks_ him. Riding her favorite stallion, Razzle, is a faint relief, but short-lived. Each night, Molly and Anthony visit, staying with her until they all fall asleep in her bed. Everyone’s effort to her comfort adds just a little hue to her toneless days.

She places down her fork, her eggs benedict barely eaten, and looks ahead to the empty seat. 

Her mother’s seat. 

_I really wanted to hear you sing again…_

Could she have done something to change the outcome? Maybe she should have made her rest earlier that day after all. Maybe she shouldn’t have shown she was so eager to see her perform again.

She jumps when Vagatha’s hand rests on her shoulder. Calmed and comforted, she rests her hand over hers, squeezing tightly. 

“... I don’t want to say it’s not fair, or it’s my fault. I know it’s not true but… good golly, that’s how I ab-so-lute-ly feel right now. Why didn’t I get sick too…? Why was I spared?”

She watches Vagatha crouch to her knees, arms open. Charlotte’s lips tremble, almost refusing the embrace out of courtesy. She doesn’t want to embarrass her friend, nor does she want to be seen! But her eyes water without warning, and her heart cracks wide. She falls into her arms, a wail stifling into her uniform. She wants to apologize for dirtying her outfit, but she can’t speak above a sob.

Neither know of the extra pair of ears behind the door, a male twin who silently watches through the cracked door just before he would enter for some breakfast. Charlotte’s wail is enough for him to reconsider eating until lunch. 

_Damn, this emotional shit just ain’t my speed._

He looks beside him, almost jumping in his boots when he sees the royal butler stand off in the hallway. Dressed a pinstriped suit instead of his uniform, Alastor looks more like a regular _Joe Brooks_ than a butler. Anthony scrutinizes.

 _When did he get back?_ But Anthony is struck with an idea! Excitement bolts through his chest! He hasn’t had a moment to play ‘matchmaker’ since arriving, so what better way than to payback the doll of a princess! He rushes down the hall, watching Alastor recoil from the rapidly closing distance.

“Yo, Smiles! Got somethin’ t’ ask ya!”

________________________________

  
  


“When I said I got a suggestion on how t’ make ya _Jane_ feel betta, gettin’ sized up fer some new _get up_ ain’t what I had in mind.” He grumbles, lifting his chin to allow the measuring tape around his throat.

“The princess is not my _Jane_. Please, stop referring to her as such; and she wants you to be a productive force in this household, so you’re going to become part of the staff. Given you don’t steal anything under my employ.”

“Gimme a _little_ credit, Smiles! And aincha supposed t’ be -- I dunno-- fucking off fer the day?”

“My duties outside the manor are complete, so now I’m needed here. Now, hold still.”

“Ya talkin’ Charlie, or shorty-- _ack_ ?!” Anthony claws at the measuring tape pulled tight around his throat, paling at Alastor’s growing grin in the three-panel mirror. “ _Bitch, youz a sadist!?”_

Alastor slackens the tape, chin tilted haughtily. “Refer to the princess and his majesty by their titles, please.”

“The _fuck_ is your deal-- Err…!” The _ethel_ surrenders when the measuring tape slowly tightens again, warning clearly understood beyond the butler’s pleasant smile. _How da_ **_fuck_ ** _does a bird make a smile look so fucking scary?!_ “Okay, okay, yeesh! Look, we all know ya got a chokin’ kink!”

“You’re repulsive.” 

“Naw, babe, I’m jus’ honest!” He smiles maliciously, gold tooth aglow under the chandelier.

“Mm-hm.” Alastor takes one last measurement between Anthony’s shoulder and wrist, before at last pulling away to write down the measurements in a little notebook on the table. “If you can recall our conversation on your first night here, I did warn your antics will not be tolerated here.”

“Okay, _first,_ I didn’t agree to be yer fuckin’ slave, Smiles!”

“Princess Charlotte spoke with the king when you first arrived and he stated he will allow you to reside here if you pull your weight. He is not, nor am I for that matter, willing to harbor a _dewdropper_.”

“I ain’t no _dewdroppa,_ busta!” Anthony counters, cupping his firm pectorals and sweeping his hands from his ribs to his hips. His tongue licks his painted lips with a smack to his rear, leering licentiously toward Alastor. “Jus’ gimme a few nights. I can give ya a demonstration. I’m keen t’ guess kingpin needs some good _nookie_ without the _frau_ around!”

Alastor looks back, unimpressed. “Don’t push it.” 

He tucks the notebook into his breast pocket. Until Moxxie recovers, he will take responsibility for taking measurements to send to a high-rate tailor. Luckily, the trip with the king reconnected Alastor to an old friend who can do the job, and more.

Anthony rolls his eyes, brushing his bob back. “Ugh! Yeah, yeah! Shit, yer worse than Val… Listen up!”

Alastor’s hands clasp to his back, skeptical.

“Ya need to get Charlie -- Er, Princess Charlotte,” He cringes, “and _blouse_!”

A brown eyebrow quirks in response.

“It ain’t good fer her to be cooped up in the place where her ma took the _big sleep_ , a’ight! I mean, the _big shot_ just split, see? Take the doll someplace nice! I can already tell ya she'd be keen to it.”

“Mr. Agostino, I have reason to believe if I take advice from your lips, I would be _taking wooden dimes_.”

“Ya got me _all wet,_ lover boy! I ain’t tellin’ ya t’ lick ‘er pussy!”

“Stop talking now.”

Anthony’s hands claw at the air, wanting to take the butler by the head and shake him! Alastor watches the reaction with open glee. Any day to aggravate the _quiff_ is a good one. 

“I actually have a question to ask you, Mr. Agostino.” Alastor adjusts his _cheaters_. “Regarding your past associates.”

The mirrors mimic Anthony’s curiosity at every angle, given to study Alastor’s reflection from the other three-panel mirrors behind him. Only his hands clasp behind his back, nothing to hide front or back. So, why is it he always feels he needs to stay on his toes around the man?

“I mentioned your sister was chased by a few _torpedos_ , and both were killed. Before I left, I found a _harp_ caught in one of our traps. Red hair? Pale skin? Green eyes? Anyone you're familiar with? If I’m to protect you and your sister, I’m going to need to _know my onions_.”

Anthony frowns, ponderous. He taps his chin, trying to remember when he came down to Hollywood with his ex-boss, Valentino. 

“ _Don't know from nothing_. Val always had to replace his goons every few days, knowing the biz, see? Uh, you know Val?”

“I’ve heard stories, but will you clarify?”

Anthony rolls his eyes. “He’s the _big shot_ of the sex trade, _fella._ Valentino Esposito. I was his best bitch before I decided to _blouse_.” Anthony grimaces, crossing his arms. He still has some _beef_ with the bastard. “He’s got a branch of business partners somewhere in California, New York, and even Texas, but they never meet in the same place more than once when I was allowed to come. San Francisco, the Broncs, even Hollywood a few times. So, if there was a newbie, I wouldna stayed around long fer me t’ remember. I remember less than half the _birds_ I _made_ _whoopee_! But, maybe,” He quirked eyebrow reflects across the glass, “Ya _bimbo_ belonged to one o’ Good ol’ Val’s business partners. I know one o’ dem lives in Hollywood. S’all I can give ya fer info.”

He watches Alastor’s expression, but he can read very little. Anthony sometimes wants to grab the man and stare straight into his eyes just to get some sort of reading on his mind! He can’t tell if he’s scheming or is genuinely curious or if he truly means to protect him and his sister when he’s smiling all the time!

 _Eh, if what I told him gets us into trouble, I’ve got my trusty beanshooter. ‘Sides, ain’t we untouchable under a king’s protection?_ He almost pats the revolver resting in his holster when guilt assails him. Charlie deserves much more than him as a friend, but if he can keep his sister safe, then he’ll use who he can, even a sweet, royal _skirt_ or a creepy butler. 

“Would you happen to know the names of his business partners?”

“Sorry, _baby._ All I can give ya fer a name is a letta: V.”

“V?”

“Like Vagina! _”_ He waggles his eyebrows, smirking at Alastor’s sneer. “Why d’ ya ask?”

Alastor doesn’t miss a beat, his arms spread when he stomps his gangly _gams_ wide in a showmen’s presentation. “Entertainment!” Anthony gawks, but Alastor already turns his back when he waves his hand behind him. “You’re done, by the bye! I’ll prepare the employment papers. Help yourself to the _hair of the dog_ sitting in the den. You remember where that is, right?”

Blinking his thick lashes, Anthony shakes his head. _Yeesh, this guy’s a loon!_ “Look here! Before I get myself _bent,_ give some thought t’ what I said. Out of all of us, I think yer the best option for Charlie to get some pep back in her step.” He grins maliciously. “Unless ya ain’t got any _beef_ with yours truly takin’ the _baby vamp_ to a dinna and a night on the town. She’s the _gnat’s whistle_ on the dance floor!”

He grins wide when Alastor stops, one hand on the door, neither turning back nor leaving.

“You should learn to _mind your potatoes_ _,_ Mr. Agostino. It’d be a real shame if the princess’s efforts for your safety were put to waste.” He leaves the room, Anthony left alone to wonder if he joked or threatened him just then. 

  
  


________________________________

The winds cool the noon sun, a good day to allow the horses to roam. Moving from her bed this morning was like moving with an anvil on her chest, but Charlotte cannot mourn herself back to sleep. Dressed in her white riding trousers and pink vest, Charlotte walks toward the stables, surprised to see Husk is not at the entrance. He normally stands ready to help her saddle the chosen steed. 

_That’s strange. Oh well, I’ll just do it myself._

“Bonne après-midi, Charlotte!”

She jumps in her brown boots! Husk certainly does not speak French, nor does he sound _gay_! She looks to the left stable, surprised to see a familiar face rise through the bars as he saddles Dazzle, tightening the buckles under the stallion’s belly before he stands.

“Alastor?! When did you get back?”

“About an hour ago. I was looking for you when Molly told me where you were going.”

“It took you an hour to find me?” She scrutinizes. “Where’s Daddy?”

“Seeing to some documents.” He laughs. “And no, _cheri_! I was stopped by Mr. Agostino. Conveniently, if I may add! I had him measured for a uniform.”

“A uniform?” She frowns, then realizes. “Oh! You mean you fitted him for the staff!” She still remembers the conversation with a shutter. Her father had been so mad when she told him about Anthony and Molly. “But not forgiven!” She jokes.

He bows, humor in the flip of his hand. “Oh, dear, that I struck your ire! Woe is me, my princess is displeased! Tell me how I am to pay for my transgressions?”

She does not have the heart to laugh, but another sad smile lifts. When he raises his head, she can see his incredulous expression. She shakes her head sorrowfully. 

“I see it’ll take more for me to return that smile.”

“I’ll be alright, Al. but welcome home. Come on, let’s ride.” Though she wishes her father could have said hello first.

He helps her saddle Razzle and Charlotte sees his attire for the first time. She’s never seen him wear riding boots before, always dressed in his wingtips. A charcoal grey vest rests atop a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. She tries not to think about his hands around her waist, helping her unto the saddle.

Riding side by side, Charlotte catches the sunlight in the strange discoloration at the crook of his elbow. Had she never paid attention before? Or is it new? Looking up, she sees he’s been watching her stare. Quick to look away, her hand presses to her chest to nurse a deep pain in her chest. _Or still the warmth overlapping the grief._

“You know, Charlotte? Ever since you returned, a cloud’s hovered over your head. It’s more noticeable now, understandably, considering what’s happened. It’s… concerning.” Her hands tighten on the reigns, a little embarrassed of his observation. 

“I just… I went through a lot while I was gone… but they’re my concerns. I can handle them. But mom was just… a blow I wasn’t prepared for.”

She looks up, willing her mask’s return, but one look to his face and her strength is hindered. She just wants peace! She wants to pause everything! Breathe and have time to heal her heart! 

She gasps when Alastor takes her hand, pulling back on the reins to stop their ride, also pulling on Dazzle’s reins to a stop.

“Alastor, please…”

“Charlotte, Look at me...”

She can’t stop the sheet of tears building in her eyes, but his hand presses against her cheek again. His thumb rubs a tear from her face, just as gentle as the night her mother collapsed. She breathes, fighting for some control over her warring emotions. His smile is softer, drawing her closer into his safety. She knows what she wants, but she can’t. She can’t have him _._

"… Come with me.”

She looks up, confused. “...To where?”

“Hollywood.”

Astonished, she jerks out of his hand. “What are you saying?! If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re asking me to run away with you!”

He laughs. “What makes you think I’m not?” He clicks his tongue, urging Dazzle forward. 

Charlotte ogles, unable to fully understand if he’s serious. “But-- We can’t! How can I abandon Daddy!? How could I abandon my duties as princess?!”

He corrals Dazzle to his left, leading him to walk around to the other side of the princess, facing her fully. “Are you an automobile who only acts when the key is turned, or are you a young woman who likes a bit of spontaneity? Are you a machine, or a human? Don’t you yearn for freedom? Or are you just a decoration sitting pretty every breakfast, lunch, and dinner?”

She frowns. “I know what you’re trying to do, and I’m not going to let you!”

“What am I doing, dear?” He mocks.

“You’re telling me to break the rules!”

“What rules? As royalty, don’t you make them as well?”

“Alastor, would you _level with me,_ please _?”_ She huffs, turning her head to the other side as he circles her like a damn dial! “Why are you suddenly throwing this on me? Is this your attempt on helping me smile, or did you finally just _dive off the deep end?”_

His smile broadens when he finally pulls the horse to a stop, facing her again while the horses face opposite of each other. Leaning forward, he levels his stare with her own, Charlotte pulling back to return some distance. 

“Take my offer and find out for yourself. Or has my charming demon belle become too much of a _weak sister?_ What happened to the _moxie_ that made you _ankle_ to the Big Apple?" He leans closer, voice fallen to a whisper. "Walk the streets where your mother was adored, and feel what it's like to have the freedom of a commoner...”

Instead of frowning, she feels a grin challenge the evident mischief, her pain forgotten in the intrigue. There’s something daring in the boldness of the offer. She’s been to Hollywood, but always hidden behind a wall of bodyguards. She wants to see the place where her mother once walked as free as an eagle. What would be like to walk the streets without the protection of her peers? Alastor would be there, so she won't be not _alone._ Her father only stayed a day before he left. Her mother's body was already carried off before she could see her. She won't see her until the funeral. Doesn't she have as much right to escape as her father did? For one day?

Alastor whispers like a serpent, weaves his words like a deal-maker, offering freedom for a single smile. She wants to be free and forget, if just for a moment. Just one day.

“... In memory of my mother, Lilith…” A smile does rise. A small one, but it's a start. “Let’s run away to Hollywood.”

"It's a deal, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ankle- walk
> 
> Off on the deep end- crazy 
> 
> bent- drunk
> 
> Moxie- gumption
> 
> Frau- wife
> 
> weak sister- weak-willed woman
> 
> Dewdropper- unemployed, loitering person
> 
> Taking wooden dimes- doing something stupid
> 
> baby grand- heavily built man
> 
> balled up- messed up
> 
> Blouse- leave
> 
> all wet- all wrong
> 
> Berries- good, fine
> 
> Big shot- important person
> 
> Can- jail
> 
> quiff- slut
> 
> Blow- go
> 
> Ethel- effeminate man
> 
> Jane- woman
> 
> Harp- an irishman
> 
> Baby- sweetheart
> 
> Bimbo- tough guy
> 
> Torpedoes- hitmen
> 
> Know ones onions- get wise
> 
> Beef- issues
> 
> Get up- outfit
> 
> Gams- legs
> 
> Gnat’s whistle- great; a fad expression 
> 
> Mind your potatoes- mind your own business.
> 
> Don't know from nothing- doesn't have any information
> 
> Jig- dance
> 
> Joe Brooks- a well dressed person; student.
> 
> Bird- general term of man or woman, or unusual man
> 
> Level with me- be honest 
> 
> Whoopee- great fun/ sex
> 
> Skirt- girl
> 
> Gay- happy
> 
> Nookie- sex
> 
> Cheaters- glasses


	11. Celebrations of the Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shall we dance, lover mine,
> 
> 'pon the moon and the stars?
> 
> Will ye quiet baneful thoughts,
> 
> as we dance twixt here to Mars?

_Just a few more minutes!_

In soft rebellion, she releases her hand. She refuses to leave yet! Not as long as floats still glide along the cobbled path and rainbows shine across the brick and cobblestone, her dreams alight and full of life! The ladies dance atop raised pedestals, angels dazzling the ear and eyes into spirited hypnosis. She wants to soak in every ounce of cheer. Dress a-twirl to the song’s enchantment, ballerina silk stain on her feet. 

“My lady?”

Charlotte calls back, “I’m here!” But her voice drowns in the jubilation.

“Princess Charlotte?! Princess, where are you?!”

Charlotte looks back, but her lady-in-waiting is gone _._ Two large men stand in the way of where Vagatha was, and Charlotte’s heart thunders. The atmosphere is suddenly too joyful when her fear grows stronger! Even now, the memory is a brisk reminder of a heavy heart’s invisibility to the joyful.

“E-Excuse me!” She attempts to walk around the men, frantic for Vagatha. “Ms. V--”

A large hand slaps over her mouth, and a gulp of cigarette smoke waters her nose. She smells it off the skin, feels the grimy sweat on her assailant’s shirt when she hoists easily off the ground. At the time, she is too little for her age, her tiny hands clawing at the palm bruising her face.

_Ms. Vagatha!! Help me!!_ “Mm-! MMM!!” Oh, how regretful is she! The backs of smiling people unaware of her struggle, deaf to the muffled shout, blind to the flailing feet. 

“Stop squirming, ya little bitch, and this will go much fasta!”

_Ms. Vagatha!! I promise I won’t break the rules again!! Daddy! Mama!!_

They rush around to an alleyway, ebony creeping like monsters across the walls. Invisible demons thrum across block windows and broken glass. The belly of Hell! A greater struggle spurs in animalistic survival, her eyes flashing for a savior, even a stranger.

And a stranger he is.

A tall man walks along the backs of the crowd, a rhythmic jig in his stride to the song sung by united Louisinans. Purple and gold beads hang around his neck, hands tuck into a burgundy jacket, lithe legs dancing in dark brown trousers. She glimpses a pair of red socks tucked in leather biscuit-toes, scuffed yet carefully polished. Around his long neck is a black and red bowtie. His brown hair was combed and coiffed, holy lights across his _cheaters._ Their eyes meet, one pair hopeful, the other startled. Two brown earths glow into gypsy coins, yet his smile remains.

Years later, she chuckles now, for the first thing she thought of was how he looked like a handsome prince from the fairytales.

**Au clair de la Lune**

**Mon ami Pierrot**

**Prête-moi ta plume**

**Pour écrire un mot**

She hears screams, and glass break. Something wet splashes, and an odor dizzies her vision to a smiling man crouching on his knees. She is under a rancid bed, dirtied by trash and bugs.

“ _Bonsoir, ma petite_ …? Did they hurt you?”

A gloved hand reaches for her. She shuffles close, wrists bound and knees scratching against sharp glass and dirty socks. Her white stockings are ripped, and some of her pretty bows fell out. She actually worries more for her mother’s annoyance than her own life when she sees the bows scatter behind her. 

_What a silly girl I was to worry such frivolous things._

A new metallic smell permeates the smoke, intermingles with something sharp and unpleasant. Only years later does she learn to recognize one of the smells as _moonshine_. The metallic odor, however? The vivid scent is breathed in from his glove when he cups her round cheek. The smell lingers, tucked under his cologne. Not unpleasant, but it leaves an unusual taste; like the faintest traces of blood when she bites the inside of her cheek too hard. 

She would never smell it as strongly ever since.

“I won’t hurt you, _ma petite_ . I’m going to take you home _, oui?”_

**Ma chandelle est morte**

**Je n'ai plus de feu**

**Ouvre-moi ta porte**

**Pour l'amour de Dieu**

Obedient to his enchanting voice, her eyes shut tight into his shoulder, his sandalwood cologne calming the _heebie-jeebies_ of a failed kidnapping. He sings to her when he carries her out of an apartment complex. She does not sleep, but she allows her eyes to close, form tight in his jacket. She tries not to pay attention to the red speckles on the fabric. 

He sounds so familiar. Strangely similar to a monster she heard on the radio. In womanhood, she will learn the atrocious monster is simply a radio host who acts out horror stories. Awfully boorish content, truly.

“Do you have a name, _ma petite?”_

“Ch… Charlotte Adeline Mary-Beth Olivia….”

“Come again?”

She repeats her name, slowly pulling herself from his chest to see his august face conflict in a mix of amusement and confusion.

“Uhhh…. Why don’t I just call you ‘Charlotte’…? Or Ms...?”

“Um…” She looks away shyly. “Daddy doesn’t allow people to call me by just my name. I’m only allowed to be called Princess Charlotte…”

She would laugh aloud when she remembers the way his head shakes, like he is struck and he has to shake off the daze. 

“Well, my dear Princess Charlotte,” He shakes with laughter. “I’m Alastor Gustave Griffiths. Not quite as fancy, but I’m sure after tonight, you can overlook my meager title.”

This man with the endless smile and jovial brown eyes is no monster… 

**Au clair de la Lune**

**Pierrot répondit**

**Je n'ai pas de plume**

**Je suis dans mon lit**

He is no angel either as she once thought as the saved damsel in distress.

**Va chez la voisine**

**Je crois qu'elle y est**

**Car dans sa cuisine**

**On bat le briquet**

**Au clair de la Lune**

**On n'y…**

‘Claire de Lune’. The song he sings to calm her while he carries her through the backstreets of Baton Rouge. When they reach the mansion, on the sidewalk is her father, shrieking profanities at the guards until he is silenced by the sight of her in the arms of a young gentleman. The next morning, Alastor works as the family butler, a happy surprise for the princess when she sees him in uniform.

Yet matured questions grow through the years. _What made this mysterious man work for us so suddenly?_

She learns the meaning of the lullaby he sang to calm her, disappointed when Alastor explains the lyrics. A beautiful aria, but a somberous story. A tale of masqueraders who dance and sing, but are unhappy with the knowledge their joy is but a fleeting moment when the last step commences. Such a sad song for a man who never frowns…

__________________________________

_How is it I’ve known you for so long… yet know so little?_

Charlotte warms her arms of the rising gooseflesh. Odd, how old memories can still shift her soul so powerfully. She shakes her head. Lately, she’s thought of their first meeting more frequently. Turning back to her closet, she blames the dress she found. The color pattern is the same as the dress she wore that night. White and red with accents of silver. Unlike the poofy skirt of childlike reticence, this is meant to accentuate a woman’s figure, laced in elegance and provocativeness by the open back. 

**_Dress in something you can dance in, my lady. We’ll be leaving by nightfall._ **

She fights back her blush in self-chastisement. _It’s not a date._

Hours spent in her chambers, she baffles herself in the choice ballgowns and cocktail dresses. Moreso, she surprises herself by the rush under her skin with every _swish swish swish_ of the hangers. The black presence of a daughter’s sorrow still remains, yet an overwhelming excitement casts the weighted shadows into an unseen corner. She switches through her dresses again. None but the silly dress pops out to her! 

She sighs again. Daddy still hasn’t come out to see her, and she’s forbidden to enter his study. According to Vaggie, he hasn’t shown his face since his return. 

_Vaggie._

A guilty bite of her lip tethers her to reality. Vagatha is extremely talented in her hair arrangements, but on multiple occasions, she made frank an unhidden chagrin towards Alastor. The atmosphere will be terribly awkward were Charlotte to reveal she means to ‘run away’ with him. Even this morning after her ride, she whispered into Charlotte’s ear after she saw the princess ride back to the stables alongside him.

**_I would be cautious of him, my lady..._ **

Astonishment doused her happiness. Vagatha met her stare with steady caution.

**_I’m sorry, but allow me this moment of frankness: He stinks of malice._ **

Charlotte bit her tongue, slighted in Alastor’s stead. Vagatha’s warnings are never voiced lest she felt it necessary, yet even so, Charlotte believed it unfair to him. A tongue-lashing was not worth their friendship, so she kept her thoughts quiet, instead requesting her lady-in-waiting to please prepare a bath for her. She is certain Vagatha would do all she could to talk her out of it. Thus, she has no intention of telling her, as awful as it may seem of a friend.

She is more than aware her mother’s absence is a reasonable catalyst as to why she’s so willing to dive into such a reckless plan. She’s a moth seeking light, and right now, Alastor shines brightest to the lantern she carries into the gazebo. Hands wring, her back to the wall. Nightfall is near, and all she wears are her drawers! Hands furiously shake her head into a ball of tangles! 

“Ohhh!!”

A knock startles her. “Princess?”

“...Molly?”

“Yes, Princess… May I come in?”

Charlotte hesitates. She desires to peacefully wallow, but her benevolence enforces her compliance. Maybe a girl who doesn’t work in the household will be a good companion. Shrugging on her favorite robe, she ponders if Molly might have a reliable interpretation for an ideal look. “You may! And Molly, I told you, you can call me by my name!”

She opens the door to a sheepish twin sister, saddening at the sight of her slinged arm. Just how awfully is she injured? “So, you’re still _darb_ with being called ‘Charlie?’”

“Yes!” Charlotte needs to blink when she looks up to the taller woman. “Good Heavens, I will _never_ grow used to how similar you and your brother look. Sometimes, I want to poke around your _bubs_ just to be sure!”

A giggle between young women, she pushes a tea tray in Charlotte’s direction. Cloudy milk fills a pair of teacups reflected upon the silver. Plated chocolate-chip cookies sit in the center of the tray, freshly baked and steaming the precious metal.

“I made honey milk!”

Charlotte gasps happily, mindful when she takes the tray with a nod of invitation. The twin’s scrutiny confuses her stride within the room. “What’s wrong?”

“Um, well… I just wasn’t expectin’ a _live wire_ response. That’s _berries_ ! I promise! _”_ She waves her hand reassuringly.

Charlotte blinks, thoughtful when she places down the tray on her coffee table. “Oh? It was…?” Immediately, Alastor re-enters her mind, and her chest flutters. Certainly, he’s to blame! Cupping her cheeks, she wills the heat to subside. “... Well… Everyone’s been going out of their way to support me. I can’t just keep acting like a _cancelled stamp_ , you know?”

Molly softens. “Dollface, It ain’t exactly a walk in the park, what with what happened. If anythin’, I’m more surprised yer takin’ it so well…”

Bitterns sit on the tongue. “I’m not.” A teacup is plucked up with a cookie. The appetite remains meager, but the desire to eat the treat calms her. “People simply make it less _grummy_ …” 

Though her first hour here was an awful experience, Molly’s fondness for the young woman overshadows the caution she feels for the charismatic butler. For the household to be under the guidance of such a dreadful man, the princess is kind, selfless, and extremely accommodating, seeing to her and Anthony’s needs much like they were of her ilk. Molly cannot fathom they live under the same roof, but the princess’s loss is a bullet wound the younger twin wants to give some semblance of relief.

“Well, that does remind me. I was wonderin’ if you would like to go to a cafe or just walk around the city. Some fresh air, ya know? Ya know any good _juice joints_?” A hand flies to her pert lips. “If, of course, that’s allowed…? With you being a princess, I ain’t sure if it’s against the rules!” 

Charlotte feels somewhat regretful to shake her head at the invitation. Molly’s company is a salve. “I would, but someone already asked me out tonight.”

Molly’s eyebrows jump. “Your maid?”

Yellow locks veils her expression, but she sees the brightness of her red cheeks. A sharp, overjoyed gasp slices their ears. 

“Yer goin’ on a _date!”_

Charlotte waves her hands frantically, but telling scarlet overflows to her ears. “It’s a _friendly_ outing!”

“ _Applesauce!_ That is **not** the smile of a friend! That’s a _goofy_ look in yer eye, if I ever saw one! Who’s the lucky _fella_?” 

She squirms under smug scrutiny. “Molly, it really isn’t like that…” She whispers, not meeting her stare. “He doesn’t feel the same way. If anything, I’m just a child to him...”

“Oh, _Bushwa_ , darlin’!” Charlotte sighs. She’s not listening. “What _palooka_ wouldn’t fall fer ya? Even my brotha would have some _whoopee_ with ya! He told me!”

She cringes. “That is not comforting.” 

“It’s a compliment from him!”

She waywardly faces her cookie, nibbles thoughtfully. On one hand, Charlotte finds the ramble humorous in its misunderstanding. The friends she made in New York were similar, ever _razzing_ in their remarks at the expense of her embarrassment. She misses the small circle she made at the liberal arts school. Even Vagatha would join the fun… 

Then an idea!

In a rush of elegance, courage springs the princess on her feet! Molly’s bob rears, caught by surprise. “Actually, Molly!! I’m sorry this is sudden, but how good are you at hair and makeup?”

“Um…” Molly fiddles for an answer, startled breaths short. “...I used to do makeup for show girls. So, plenty good?” 

Charlotte could almost kiss her!

“Molly, may I _please_ ask you to do me a favor? This friend asked me to dress my best, and I’m actually kind of embarrassed to tell Vagatha I’m going out tonight!”

Grey eyes flutter. “Why would you be embarrassed? You need some fresh air! She should be ecstatic you’re going out!”

Teeth guiltily nip at rose-bud lips. Truthfully, _should_ she be going out? Is this truly something she’s doing in remembrance of her mother or is this simply a decorated dream she’s desired since girlhood? Was this a wish she spoke unto the heavens, and comes a delayed answer when her affections would regrow? 

_Walk the streets where your mother was adored, and feel what it's like to have the freedom of a commoner._

Alastor’s words are a gem’s twinkle, an impish little devil on her shoulder. Hands curl on her chest where guilt and self-indulgence lock in battle. What of her father? Locked away in his study, she is forbidden to knock or call. What would happen if he fetches for her only to discover she is not home? Alastor could be in deep trouble! 

_I can’t do that to him!_

A warm hand envelops Charlotte’s, and she’s back in the present. Molly stands above, jests silent, demeanor compassionate. Charlotte must crane her neck to properly see her face, and she feels a natural pull to rest in the gentle gaze. She and Anthony are so very different. When he looks down to her, she’s overwhelmed by his calloused disposition. Molly’s countenance invites her to rest against maternal forbearance. 

“ _What’s eatin’ ya_ , honey?”

She knows not what to answer, for too many things weigh her mind, but Molly does not wait for one.

“Let me give ya a bit of advice my brotha’s given me when I was too scared to make a give the mob the _slip_ : ‘Fuck it all!’” 

Charlotte reels, gobsmacked to hear such vulgar language from the kinder sibling.

“Ya know, Anthony and I lost our auntie. Our Ma didn’t spend a lot o’ time with us, and our auntie was like our surrogate. _Bumped off_ in a spray o’ bullets when we turned eighteen. The mafia ain’t kind. Especially to families. It wasn’t right the way she died…” Charlotte feels the squeeze of her hand. The younger twin breathes deeply, her smile back with heavier eyes. “But she always told me and my brother _neva’_ to cry at her funeral. ‘Eat, drink, be merry’! That was her motto! So we celebrated her life instead of mournin’ her death. Ya shoulda seen Papa’s face when he found out we made off with a quarta’ of his _moonshine_ to have a party with our cousins.”

The princess pales, horrified for what outcome the twins endured, but only Molly laughs! 

“It was a long time ago now. No bruises to rememba’ by. Yer ma would want ya t’ be happy. And if this ‘outing’ will make ya happy, then I’m going to get ya _dressed to the nines_! By the time I’m done, this ‘friend’ of yours will be pantin’ at yer feet!”

Charlotte ‘Eeps’, tensing under her grip!

In a gush, Molly can’t help herself from pulling her in for a hug, careful not to strain her injured arm. “How are you such a doll!? I could just eat you up!!”

Molly rambles on, unaware of the growing smile on Charlotte’s face when she pillows herself into her generous bosom. Her chest is lighter, her mind calmer. Her mother _would_ want her to be happy. Charlotte allows herself to be guided to the vanity, the vast looking-glass reflecting her father’s features, but now, she proudly acknowledges the subtle gifts of her mother looking back. Haunted memories revisit the night her mother grew ill, when her daughter removed the pearled pins from her hair. Healthily, if tiredly, discussing Charlotte’s request.

And her unrequited feelings for Alastor.

__________________________________

“I thought you were over him!”

“I was! But when I was in New York, it was like… they came back, and much different than before! I know he will **never** see me the same way, Mama, so don’t lecture me! I’m not going to try to pursue--

“Hold on, Apple Blossom! Don’t you _get in a lather!_ At least, accuse me of something when I actually do it! Which I wasn’t!”

Charlotte closes her lips, lips tight to still anymore defenses. They sit in silence, fingers combing through her scalp, root to tip as she keeps herself from meeting her mother’s eyes in the mirror. She probably looks like an actual apple by the hot flush of her cheeks.

“He reminds me of your father quite a bit.”

Charlotte looks up, bewildered. Lilith is tapping her foot midair, thoughtful features toward the ceiling.

“Did you know girls tend to marry men who remind them of their fathers?”

Charlotte balks, unsure where her mother is getting at, but she only leans back on her hands, smile full of whimsy 

“... I like him.”

She is completely lost as to how to respond.

“... I’ll talk to your father.” She hints mischievously, and it is then Charlotte notes dabs of sweat on her skin. As strong as her mother portrays herself, her own daughter should have known better than to think she simply suffers exhaustion; Selfishly, all she thought of was how her future finally seemed bright, promising, and **free.**

__________________________________

_… Why did you have to go when I needed you the most...?_ Now, how will she ever see her dream fulfilled without agreeing to her father's terms? She wanted her mother to witness her plans fruition, and now, hope seems so far away.

Molly cuts into her thoughts once more. “By the way, Honey, ya never told me the name of the _sheba!_ Is it someone I know? Oh, I’ll bet he’s a prince!”

“No…” Charlotte laughs, cleverly answering only _one_ of the questions without her make-up artist’s notice. She’s not sure how Molly would react to learn the man who ‘threatened’ her is the one who has her fancy. “He’s not a royal at all, actually…” 

“Oh? So, you’re _dizzy_ for a pauper!? Like in the storybook?”

“No,” A warm chuckle, “he’s no pauper, either. He certainly makes enough to eat three meals a day, and he’s a magnificent cook...”

“He can _cook?!”_

Her heart swells. Vagatha _never_ has the patience to hear Charlotte’s praises toward the Royal Butler, so she indulges in each muse. “His jambalaya is my favorite! He always makes my plate with an extra bit of lemon juice and sweet peppers. I loved him like family for years, but when we first met, I had a little crush on him then too.”

She tells her about the fateful meeting in Baton Rouge. Molly swoons, jumping on her toes before lightly applying her make-up and arranging her hair. ‘A knight in shining armor’ Molly shrieks! Charlotte chuckles, ponderous. He is not quite what she would call a ‘hero’ but he is her own sort of hero. A very debonair, mischievous one. She sorrows again, aware her affections will remain unanswered, but a night is all she’ll be glad to have alongside him. Confidence regrows in the decision the longer she looks at her changing appearance. Molly expertly apply the rouges in a natural hue of color, near undetectable while her eyes, lips and cheeks accentuate under her brushstrokes. 

“He actually _laughed_ at me when I confessed!”

“Oh, that’s just cruel!”

“I was fourteen, Molly! He was in his twenties! Of course, it was funny! At the time, it wasn’t, but thinking back on it now, it _is_ ridiculous!” 

“Oh! You like ‘em older!” Molly tilts her face, holding Charlotte still when she adds mascara to her long lashes. “Is that why you think he doesn’t like you back?”

“Well…” Charlotte studies the ceiling painting above them, depictions of angels and fantastical creatures in green forests, feasting on lush berries. “Honestly, I can never tell what he’s thinking. I’ve known him for years, yet I can barely tell whether he’s smiling because he’s truly happy or if it’s just a mask he’s never taken off.”

Molly pauses, before tilting Charlotte’s face back down, then side to side. “You mean you’ve never seen him frown?”

“... You know? Never.” Charlotte opens her eyes, thoughtfully looking back at her incomplete appearance. She imagines Alastor literally applying a smile on the blank canvas of his face. An unsettling image, yet one she can’t think of with any more accuracy than a painter and his canvas. Ever composed, ever impenetrable against anger or sorrow. His smile she can never rely on, and his eyes? Even then, he carefully guards his emotions. “He always said ‘you’re never fully dressed without a smile’ if he caught me pouting.” 

At this point, it’s practically a mantra she’s even come to rely on herself when she must put on a brave face; yet what kept her from keeping up a facade is her love for sincerity. A fake smile when she is truly sad is a liar’s smile. She can’t stand lies. 

“... I’ve known him for ten years and I have _never_ seen him frown. You have to learn to read through his smile to know when he’s annoyed... or content.”

She thinks back to the song he sang to her, ‘Claire de lune’. Masqueraders dancing and singing until the last. His immovable smile is his security, the mask he chooses as he endlessly dances to a silent orchestra. Will she don her own mask, give one eve to frolic alongside him in elation’s pretense? Will she expose herself to the accursed last step and melt a moment of happiness under sorrow’s downpour?

Looking at herself in the mirror, she knows she already made the final decision.

“I wonder if he forgot what it’s like to smile sincerely, or if life is a fun game of poker to him. You never show the other players what you’re thinking. A smile can be just as misleading as a blank-face.”

___________________________________

“Ya should consider a bob! I _love_ yer hair, honey, but a bob would be so much easier to maintain! Ya got the _goods_ to pull it--”

A knock on the door, and Charlotte’s stomach twists. Molly adjusts the final touch to her headdress, hair in place by a red satin, elastic band. Gold coils frame her round cheeks in a half-do pouring over her shoulder and down her back. Faux baby’s breath flowers pin to the edges of a fabric rose folded into the satin, her curls a bouquet encased in a yellow waterfall of ringlets. Three strings of pearls cradle the back of her head, ending short of the base of her neck 

“That must be him!”

Charlotte leaps out of her seat, heels a-clack to reach the door before her. Awkwardness is not how she desires to start the evening! 

The door flies open, and relief overtakes her as strongly as the disappointment!

“My lady?” Vagatha blinks wide, looking the princess from head to toe. Charlotte fights the shame filling her face.

“Vaggie… I thought you were off the clock by now…”

“I am, but I wanted to check on you since you never left your room since this afternoon. You’re looking _swanky_ …?” She murmurs.

“Thank you. I’m… going out.” _Of all the people_ ! She walks backward, her bed suddenly a better option to the unwanted conversation she _knows_ will become a force of nature she is unwilling to storm. Yet, she backs into Molly’s plush bosom, and the girl’s hands hold the princess in place when she answers with an enthusiastic nod. 

_No! No! Molly, don’t say anything!!_

“Going out?”

“On a date!”

Charlotte tenses when Vagatha sharpens. “I thought you said you weren’t seeing anyone.”

“No! No, Vaggie, you have it all wrong! It’s not a date! A friend is just taking me out!”

“Oh?” She shrinks at the angry volume. “And just _who_ would this friend be?”

“Me _, ma chere.”_

Three women look back, and Charlotte’s embarrassment melts away, inattentive when Molly’s hands tighten on her shoulders. Alastor stands proudly in a new suit. His eyebrow quirks, grin cocky. Intense pitter-patters halt her breaths, studious gaze traveling from head to toe. Extremely glad she settled on the rhitzy dress she found earlier, Mr. Griffiths proves himself a real _sheik_ when _dressed to the nines._ She’s seen him in plenty of suits, but this one takes the cake as his most _dashing_. Similar to his red tuxedo, yet an ensemble of the unique spirit of Alastor Gustave Griffiths.

A slim-fitting, open red tuxedo reveals his torso wrapped in a burgundy, single-button vest with a plunging neckline. Under the vest, a grey button-up shirt smooths across his chest, his spear-tipped collar decorated in a black and red bowtie-- much like the one he wore in Baton Rouge. Grey trousers fit his slim legs, feet tipped with black-polished wingtips. Matching the hue of his vest, a handkerchief peeks from his breast pocket, and he adjusts silver cufflinks. Hanging on his vest is a silver chain of a tucked pocketwatch, a nobleman’s disposition in its gleam. His _cheaters_ too are decorated by a thin silver chain to the right of his face, an ivory sheen leading to the back on his head. 

The sweep of his coiffeur is a more pronounced volume of his bangs parted from the left to open his forehead, a lone hair dancing near his honeyed gaze. A honeyed gaze which hones in on the princess.

Only her. 

Until she hears a whistle from his lips, she realizes her speechlessness; and her wandering eyes. _Oh, for heaven’s sake!!_ She tucks a hair behind her ear when she gives him a shy glance.

“I was afraid I was overdressed.” She, at long last, responds! 

“What…?” Molly gapes, yet all are inattentive to her open confusion. 

“Oh, not at all, princess! You…” His pause flusters her, yet she remains courageous, head high in false pride. “Well, really, no words can really describe. Astonishing is about all I can think of!” He begins to walk toward her.

 _Is he trying to play coquette right now!?_ She stands uncomfortably between her lady-in-waiting and houseguest. “I can say the same for you.” 

“What’s going on here…?” Vagatha alternates between them, and Charlotte breaks character, abashed by the severity in her stare, but Alastor continues his approach until he stands above the challenging maid. As she suspected, Vagatha fumes! “Are you and she…?”

She leaps a hand on Vagatha’s shoulder. “We’re just going on a friendly outing, Vaggie!”

She faces her, teeth bare! “By yourselves? Does his _majesty_ know of this?!” Vagatha glares back to Alastor, accusatory. “Are you two **seriously** about to enjoy a night on the town, having fun while your dad’s grieving?!”

Charlotte flinches!

“Is **this** how you honor your mother’s memory?!”

“Ms. Vagatha, you’re speaking out of turn.”

“Beg your pardon, **Mr. Griffiths,** but I’m off the clock, so I’ll speak as much _hooey_ as I need to warn **our princess** for her to learn _not to take wooden dimes_ from **you**!”

She feels Molly pulling her back, lips at her ear. “Charlie… I don’t think this is a good idea.” 

Astonishment breaks her calm, and a storm ripples, but of a different darkness to the walking shame. Anger rises, amazement and disappointment heightened by the black presence of loss. Vagatha’s accusations have been ignored, discounted, and flat-out avoided! Seeing her act so disrespectfully is not what slights her, but the accusations! Such inaccurate, misconstrued, **bushwa**! And now Molly?! 

_No… No, I’ve just about had it!_

Alastor begins, but Charlotte’s sharp tone cuts the air.

“That’s **enough!”**

The room hushes, electrified by a silent tempest flowing through royal veins. Fists wring tight, yellow ringlets tremulous. From painted lips, teeth peer in wrathful silence.

“You think I’m doing this because I forgot my **own mother** is gone?! How could you assume something so awful!?”

Vagatha’s eye widens, a hand claps over her mouth. “Princess Charlotte, no! No, I didn’t mean it like--”

“No, Vagatha!” She doesn’t know why she starts using her full name. “Do you know me so little that you would think I would just go out because I’m a coward?! I want to go out because I’m being **selfish** for once! I want to go to the place where mom used to be! Where she was loved! Where she **sang!** My dad _never_ came out to see me when he returned, Vagatha! And when I went to go see him, he was in his study! I’m **not allowed** to go in there! He left a day after mom died! **One day!** Can’t I just escape for **one** evening!”

A hand presses into her face, abating the tears in her eyes. She can’t bring herself to look at Alastor for this embarrassment!

“I want to go to the place she was loved with the man I trust the most. I trust him, Vaggie! Even if you don’t!”

She looks up only for one moment. The guilt on Vagatha’s face, the shock, even hurt, is a lightning strike. She wishes she hadn’t caused such a downcast, but she is far from regretful.

Molly releases her, but she does not look back. The glance in Vaggie’s eyes is enough of an emotional slap. She doesn’t want to see the twin’s expression, especially when she tried to prevent her leave. “Charlotte…! I’m sorry…!”

She breathes for a single pause, thoughts carefully arranged into words. “... I forgive you, Vaggie. But please, don’t you **dare** think I’m doing this like she was never here! I won’t excuse it a second time. Do you understand?”

“... Yes.”

“Ahem! If I may cut in, Ms. Vaggie.”

Vagatha’s teeth clench, tossing him an enraged glare. His grin remains smug. He has to admit he’s rather impressed the princess put her in her place, and without any encouragement from him is a lovely reassurance! 

_There’s my spitfire’s_ **_moxie_ ** _!_ “But the king **is** aware I intend to take her out!” 

Charlotte falters with Vagatha. His grin tilts, nodding in acknowledgement, tempting Charlotte to palm her own face. 

_That’s right. It_ **_wouldn’t_ ** _be such a good idea for the_ **_butler_ ** _just to ankle out without dad knowing._

“Yes, indeedy! I was given permission by the head of the household himself! What, did you think I was going to elope with her? The thought’s quite tempting...” Mischief beams. 

With a startled gasp, she’s quick to rush between them before Vagatha attempts to _bum rush_ him out of the residence. _Ooh, these heels!_ “Okay, okay, that’s enough now! Jokes aside, we are going out! And that’s that! Sounds _berries_ to everyone?”

However, Alastor pushes further, enjoying the awkwardness.

“What makes you think I was joking?”

“ _Pipe down…!_ ” She whispers harshly behind her.

Laughter booms through the halls, challenging the crackling glare from an enraged lady-in-waiting. Quickly to regain composure, he offers an arm to her, to which Charlotte looks bemusedly. No matter how pestilential his nonchalance wears on her patience, his blasted smile disarms her without fail. He looks at her with a softer countenance, elbow out patiently. Keeping herself from looking at Vagatha, she willingly accepts. 

She doesn’t have the heart to look back when they retreat, reluctant to see the anger and disappointment. 

_I’m sorry, Vaggie, but I want this. I_ **_need_ ** _this. I want to know what it’s like to be a normal woman for_ **_one night_ ** _with the man she likes. Even if he doesn’t like me back…_

Alastor, quite oppositely, smiles back victoriously, drinking in Vagatha’s defeat with Molly’s frozen uncertainty. Had Charlotte not done the job for him, he would have been glad to remind them who is in charge. Molly, especially, when he gifted her life back.

 _I will have to speak with her later. “_ _Bonsoir, mesdames.”_

Charlotte unwinds the further they walk out of sight. His gloved hand warm against her fingers, and she instinctively pulls herself closer into his cologne. So their night begins on the road to Hollywood.

“By the way.” He stops them just short of the front door, confounding her. 

“Did you forget something?”

“Indeed.” He faces her, takes her hand and kisses her knuckles, a warmth ignited under his touch. His eyes are softer, his smile no longer rigid as it was when under Vagatha’s fiery allegations. “I didn’t have the chance while we were being watched, my dear.”

“… Thank you. By the way, Alastor?”

“Hm?”

She relaxes. “We’re not eloping.”

Alastor blinks, making her chuckle when his brow quirks with a laugh. “Rhatz!”

  
  


_________________________________________________

  
  


Alright, so she is unwilling to ‘run away’ more than she looks to ‘temporarily escape’. Give herself her soul’s release into spontaneity’s daydream. As they drive, stores fly across her window, a brush stroke of vermilion, earth, and azure. She can only think of the fireflies out in the gazebo as she watches the streetlights light up through the automobile’s window. She takes this moment to look at the lights playing across his face. She suddenly can’t fight back a yawn, back turning to remain appropriate.

“Sleepy?” Alastor teases. “Well, don’t worry your pretty head! Where we’re going, there’s always a good cup of java on demand!”

 _“_ At night?” She grimaces.

“ _Especially_ at night! It’s when all the fun begins!”

“It’s also when everything closes.” She sighs, helplessly looking out to the sleepless city. “Do you think we’ll make it to the stage before it locks?”

His grin catches in the streetlights. “If we don’t, then we’ll make sure to open it.”

“What do you mean?” She turns fully to him, leaning her head into the seat. Her angelic features always seem to be all the more enticing when garbed in curiosity. 

_And I have her all to myself…_ “I’ll leave that up to you, my dear.” 

She squints. “I can’t just tell them to keep it open.”

He takes a sidelong glance, but says nothing when he takes in her appearance again.

In the hallway, he had to remember to breathe when he saw her chosen outfit. Under the chandelier’s fluorescence, her full lips hint of carmine. He adores her natural features, but the color shocks his mind to consider her skin in a dab of blood. Around her neckline, rubies reflect a cardinal dalliance, dazzles the red and white sequin ensemble sweeping her bodice in a wide diamond pattern dipped into her hips, accentuating her hourglass shape. Beads dance at her calves, rain and blood decorating a fantasy to life. A princess he can only compare to the beauty of the fabled Maid Marion and the tragic Ophelia. The reds are overwhelmed by the white’s purity, yet how beautiful she looks in mere accents. The dress reaches just below her knees, complemented by red-silk heels. Even her hands are dressed in the red mesh gloves, her fingers free of the fabric.

Modest with a hint of provocativeness. He clears his throat and recalls her statement.

“Not true!” He flips a finger midair, one hand on the steering wheel, “Not when you clearly have the means of getting in.”

Charlotte scrutinizes, clearly lost. 

“My dear Charlotte,” An eyebrow quirks, grin full of secrets he is all too excited to share! “You’re a princess. Use that to your advantage!”

Charlotte almost balks, but her jaw does unhinge. Such audacity to smile at the suggestion! “Alastor, beg your pardon, but did you want us to leave by nightfall just so I can throw around my _title?”_

“That’s one reason, but not the main one!” He giggles!

“What is _wrong_ with you!?” She’s so gobsmacked by his answer, her own giggle joins. “You know I don’t like doing that!”

“That’s why everyone walks all over you.”

“Oh, like you?” She laughs.

His teeth shimmer under another street light. “ _Especially_ by me. You’re so fun to tease!”

“You’re on thin ice, Mr. Griffiths...”

“Is that a threat, sweetheart?” He turns his face fully in her direction, testing her will when her eyes bulb, fearful.

“Alastor!! Watch the road!”

He chuckles before he obeys, one hand releasing the steering wheel to reach out to Charlotte. His hand finds hers, gently uncurling it from her chest to give it a squeeze. Whether he means to comfort her, she is unsure, yet she responds in kind, marveling how his hand nearly swallows up hers in a protective grasp. 

Yet he continues, slow to pull it to his face. A soft press of lips lingers on the middle of her phalanges. Somehow, this is different from the greeting he gave at the front door. This one holds an intimate secret, a rapt attention inconsistent to a man who sees her as a mere _Dumb Dora._ A pool of warmth shivers through her body, her breath shortened as she watches his face intently. This time, she does not protest when he looks away from the road again to face her. 

Calm. Confident. _Eager._

Strangely, she trusts him to take them to their destination safely. Even if he were to close his eyes. As long as she gets to see him look at her. 

“This way, sweetheart, was the easiest way for us to be alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I truly intended to write them in Hollywood, but anytime I tried to get the ball rolling in the beauty of the city in lights, something just didn't bode well. I'll just say the Holy Spirit took the lead on this one, and I'm glad I let it! I was happy to give Molly more screentime! Please be safe, wear your mask, and next chapter, we'll be in Hollywood FOR REAL!
> 
> Also, the Tux is an adjustment of Alastor's when he began to sing his version of 'Inside of every demon is a rainbow (lost cause)! Instead the wrap, it's a dark red vest (ooh shiny!) and under it, a grey shirt. I was going to go for black at first, but Alastor is not entirely 'BLACK' in his morals. He has a very grey moral code, so it's categorized in the frequent use of grey. Grey is HECKA sexy too!
> 
> Applesauce: Bullcrap!
> 
> Darb: like berries, it’s good
> 
> Egg: a person who leads an absurdly wealthy, extravagant lifestyle
> 
> Bubs: boobs
> 
> goofy: in love
> 
> Dizzy: in love
> 
> get in a lather: get worked up, angry
> 
> grummy: depressed
> 
> Pipe down: stop talking
> 
> Moxie: gumption
> 
> Fella: man
> 
> Berries: good
> 
> juice joints: speakeasy
> 
> Razzing: razz: to make fun of
> 
> What’s eatin’ ya: What’s wrong  
> from taking wooden dimes: do something stupid
> 
> Slip: make a run for it
> 
> goods, the: (1) the right material, or a person who has it
> 
> Bumped off: killed
> 
> Choice bit of calico: beautiful girl
> 
> Swanky: elegant
> 
> Sheba: attractive male
> 
> live wire: a lively person
> 
> Bushwa: bullshit
> 
> Dressed to the nines: very well dressed
> 
> Cancelled stamp: a shy, lonely female, the type one would describe as a “wallflower”
> 
> Rhatz!: How disappointing!
> 
> Ankle: walk
> 
> bum's rush, the: to eject from an establishment
> 
> Moonshine: homemade whiskey
> 
> Dumb Dora: unintelligent woman


	12. The Masquerade Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let us sing, let us dance, let us flee
> 
> I see your tears, dear lady
> 
> And a smile I wish only for me
> 
> Look to me and hear me sing, malady!
> 
> I want you to be for me.

Excitement and dread drapes Charlotte's mind, a pendulum’s swing between tomfoolery and innocent curiosity. Los Angeles flies across the windows, the night luminous in baleful laughter, dancing _proskirts_ waving their _gaspers_ to tether the attention of the wandering gentleman! With her end of innocence from Anthony’s life lessons and Seviathan’s hidden cruelty, Charlotte wonders how many seek out the local speakeasies now, intent to lose the night to a _jinglebrained_ stupor. New York’s nightlife is recalled with the passing lights, an abhorrent rhythm of yips of the _zozzled_ nobleman. A year-long association with the don’s son was all it took for her to understand the underbelly of the Prohibition’s astounding backfire, _boozehounds_ weaving down alleys to a forbidden corner.

Aside from the ordinary scandals, the princess sits in contemplative silence brushing her knuckles, his phantom lips still warm on her skin. A mindless trace follows the grooves of her fingers, his intense stare branded into her thoughts. Such small movements, such tender attention and she is lost to the sway of another sort of elation no sort of alcohol can give her. Unspoken hopes buzz, bothersome responsibilities dither deep behind a locked door in her mind. Charlotte tentatively watches the yellow windows, the passing buildings filtering through a heart’s muddled reflections. 

_‘_ _“This way, sweetheart, was the easiest way for us to be alone.”’_

_He could have said that a little differently!!_

Again, her heart thumps, and a wave of pleasure cracks beyond her quiet composure. Fingers trace the seam of her throat, pulse at a rapid pace under the rubies. She can’t turn back. She _won’t_ turn back, but she must be prudent. Perhaps, she can will her heart to return to the familial attachment toward Alastor, somehow chase away the ardor back to cordial affection. This is no different to the few times they have had to ride alone before as majordomo and princess! 

Except she rides beside him instead of behind. And he looks quite handsome in his tuxedo.

_Stop it! Think of it as all the other times you were together. Just happy in each other’s company. Teasing each other… laughing… playful..._

She is not aware of the intensity by which another pair of eyes stare at the movement of her finger tracing the ivory pillar. Alastor's admiration sparks at Charlotte's delicate nails teetering on the thin line of her clavicle like a timid bird, marveling at the rubies’ luminance tracing her lower jawline. Like slashes of blood fluttering with a butterfly’s beat. Her eyes glow with turbulent thoughts, and the creases of her worry lines deepen. 

“Something on your mind, kitten? You’ve been quiet for some time.” He teases. “Not getting cold feet, are you?”

The moment his voice snatches her attention, she knows the wish to return to how things were will remain unanswered. She’s never been much good at lying, especially to herself. So, gathering her confidence, she faces him. His infectious smile rises, and her concerns melt. Simply the sight of him throbs like a dull wound yet fills her with joy. 

“It’s nothing to be concerned about. I’m just excited about seeing the stage.” She clasps her hands, palm overlapping the one he kissed.

He contemplates calling her out on her poor fib, curiosity laced within his reply. She’s too easy to read, this one. “You never went with her to any of the rehearsals, have you?” 

Charlotte's features fall. “... I didn’t. That was entirely on me as well.” 

She leans over her knees. She never counted the number of times her mother came to her room with an invitation to see the venue where she was doing her very first picture show as an actress. She always took great pride as an opera singer, and wanted to remain true to her training behind the camera, even if she could not be heard. In retrospect, her voice would be on a record, and her voice would be playing in people’s homes on gramophone. The performance was going to be an interval between two other scenes acted by the protagonist's love interest and himself. Rightfully, a love song was chosen, an aria Charlotte would hear Lillith whisper in the privacy of her and her husband's chambers. She thought it most exciting, but Charlotte's love for surprises influenced each refusal.

“I wanted to see her on that screen for the first time. So, I didn’t go just so I wouldn’t lose the magic of already seeing her performance. I wanted to go! Truly, I did! But…” A slow breath exhales into long, forlorn regrets. She was so very blind to what her mother was trying to do to subtly spend time with her. “... Despite that… Sometimes, she would practice in her room, and I would stand right next to the door in secret. Listening and learning each word. Each note.” 

That awful presence encroaches, an albatross crucified upon her mind of her innocent folly. She could have gone. She might have been able to prevent this from happening if she were with her mother. She could have caught the sickness instead of her. She could have taken her elsewhere, or maybe she should have told her not to go at all! Maybe--

A hand places itself on her tightening fingers.

“... That’s enough now.”

She hears him say. “I told you we’re going to try to put a smile back on that pretty face.”

Charlotte sighs, looking away. “Al… I don’t know if that’ll be possible for a while. I’m not like you. I can’t just… _smile_ my way through everything. If I try to, it just feels heavy.” She looks at him, sorrow bare. “I don’t like lying. And if I give you a fake smile, I’ll feel like I’m lying.”

“You won’t be lying to me, sweetheart.” There’s an ease in his face then, a rare heaviness in his eye. “You would be showing me your strength.”

“I’m not that strong, then.” 

“I beg to differ. That was quite the display with Ms. Vagatha.”

She winces. “I wasn’t going to let her insult you like that, but I still feel really guilty. I’m nervous to face her when I return...”

“Shall I, then?”

“No. This is my matter.” 

As soon as the words leave her lips, she realizes her rudeness, batting away each word of banter with a bitter remark. Sighing, she doesn’t rethink her actions when she pulls one of her hands from under his grasp, cupping his hand under hers in reassurance. He says nothing, but does not pull his hand away. In fact, he slowly contemplates why he _doesn’t_ instantly yank himself from her. 

“Forgive me. I’m happy I’m out of the manor. Honestly. I don’t mean to be a _wet blanket…”_

“... It’s perfectly natural, my dear.” His thumb smoothes the back of her palm under his, soft and firm. “... You lost someone dear to you. The queen was a lovely woman. Three days is not exactly enough time to grieve, but locking yourself in your room is not an ideal form of mourning either.”

She whips her head. “But I should have gone with her! Maybe I could have kept a better eye on the people around her, and see who looked sick enough to warn her!”

“You could not have predicted your mother’s health just as much as I could not have predicted mine when she caught the illness.”

_What?_

There it is. Another rare nugget. A piece of gold chipped from a cavern wall. Charlotte watches him fully, eyes eager to absorb, ardent for more revelations. She keeps herself from speaking, fearful any prods would scare off his words with a deer’s sprightly escape. He appears thoughtful, faraway eyes staring out beyond the windshield. Melanchoy…

“.... Is she still…?”

“Alive? Well, she survived the illness, but not without complications afterwards. She couldn’t move without losing her breath soon after.”

She waits, implores in the softness of her eyes. His silence extends, and she can feel her words flutter without permission with a timid plea. 

“... How long ago was that?”

Silence. Coolness overtakes her knuckles when she realizes his hand peels away from hers. She nearly snatches for his fingers, forcing herself still on her lap. Such an odd man, with the confidence the stars can’t compare to the glamour of his voice and the magnitude of his mannerisms; yet, the moment his mystery is questioned, he is quick to refuge himself into his walls. 

_Will you ever trust me, my friend…?_ “I’m sorry. You don’t have to say anything.” She expected the silence to remain between them, or at least, have the subject change to something else. Once again shroud himself in mystery. 

And she’ll allow him his secrets.

“It would be five years from now.”

She snaps toward him then, shock transparent.

Her eagerness prompts his lips to loosen. How strange, to see the same eagerness so many turn toward him attract instead of repel. Many lifted their silent prayers for the smallest truth behind his mask, and all were rejected with disdain.

_Except her, and all she had to do was simply look at me._

“I took leave for two weeks when the pandemic first broke out. I wanted to see if she was well. When I arrived, I made it just in time to take care of her. I sat by her bed for hours, giving her water and medicine. I barely slept and did not eat well.” He chuckles, a new softness in his gaze. “Just like you, actually.”

Their eyes meet, and she does not hide away this time. “... That’s why you were so adamant when I told you about mom.”

“... I was not willing for anyone else to go through that. You, least of all.”

Though his hand already returns to the steering wheel, she wishes to take it back, but settles to show her gratitude in a nod. She thought it so strange when he held her close, asked her questions when he came home from his dinner with Mr. Kvalheim. But most astonishing was his willingness to press his forehead to hers. Her nerves were too fraught to realize the intimacy of the act that she plumb forgot about it! 

_Oh, good heavens, I can’t blush about it_ **_now_ ** _!_

She clears her throat before she trusts her words. “Thank you for telling me...” Her hand presses into her breast, precious stones clinking against her fingers. “That means more than you know.”

His risen brow prompts her to continue, and this time, she looks away to her intertwined fingers. 

“… I know very little about you, Alastor. It’s so funny, especially since we’ve known each other for such a long time. The extent I know of you is that you’re from Louisiana, and I know you love Jambalaya! You hate sweets, but make the most wonderful beignets! You don’t like to be touched, but yet you touch freely. You like hunting, and you don’t frown for anything!” 

He chuckles, one which she returns softly. But those few chuckles press into the fresh wound in her heart of hearts and she physically winces. The back of her fingers press into her painted lips. She finds she does not care whether they smear her skin. He does not speak, watching between her and the road. 

“... I’m not saying I want you to tell me everything. It’s your past. Your precious secrets. I don’t want you to have to share unless I feel you can trust me with those things. So… thank you, for trusting me enough about your mother.”

Looking up, she grows curious about the muted expression. His smile remains, yet his brow is bundled like a tightly wound package hastily dressed before delivery. In a moment, he relaxes, his hand loose on the steering wheel. It’s this moment she realizes the speed of the car descends, and she blinks. 

_How long have we been speeding?_

“You’re welcome, dear. But something to add…” His grin grows wry. “... I will warn there are some things better left unsaid.”

She frowns curiously.

“But my mother… It wouldn’t be better or worse if I told you about her, so I suppose we’re scott-free.”

“... Would you tell me what she’s like?”

“Another time, kitten. We’re here.”

She looks out then. _When did we arrive!?_

A security guard boredly sits back, looking up from a rather telling magazine, women garbed in little more than their drawers brazenly posed on the front. “Actors only.” He responds curtly, flipping through his magazine again. Alastor, however, simply pokes his head out, elbow perched out the window to silently stare at the _sod._ The guard ignores him, only to bristle at the extended silence. He looks up, a curse at his teeth when he actually sees the driver’s face. 

Alastor’s smirk grows.

“Sh-Shit! Sorry, sir! I’ll open the gate right away!”

Charlotte gawks, an accusatory gaze fixed on Alastor who only gives a shrug as the gates open, his infuriating smile wide and bold. 

_____________________________________

  
  


Alastor takes her by the hand, but were she honest with herself, she is unprepared for the colors of familiar faces she recalls on the screens of popular picture shows! She hasn’t a clue why the glamour has not worn off, for it is not the first time she has come across workers of showbiz! When she steps a toe from the automobile, the dazzle of the studio strikes an embellishment of color and glamour in the gem-studded fingers, diamond encrusted gowns, exaggerated makeup and the form-fitting costumes! Mermaids and pirates share an oasis in secret, angels and demons drink a cup of punch in amicable respect, and the kindest faces off camera don the most sinister expressions on queue! 

Hollywood! She was so caught up in her own mind, absorbed in conversation with Alastor, she did not realize until she steps forward she now stands in _Hollywood!_

Stars surround them! Actors, singers, dancers, even whole orchestras! Show girls rush out of one studio to gather round an outdoor table full of snacks and sandwiches. The time past dinner, she didn’t expect the stages would be active past six, yet the surrounding area is abuzz as though the sun will rise in minutes. In her marvel, she nearly misses _Louise Brooks_ walking by with a cocky strut, block bob fluttering her ears as she ignores the princess on the path to her trailer, bodyguards flanking her at every side when she’s escorted within. 

Charlotte is sure her tongue is lost when she stares at the now closed door where the starlet disappears, mutely following Alastor by the arm.

“I thought we would be too late…”

Alastor laughs, ignoring the wide glances turning their way. “Hollywood performers work long hours, kitten. Their paychecks are dependent on a good performance, and if it’s not top notch, some even stay overnight.”

Charlotte jerks. “Did mom endure such treatment as well?!”

“Before she met your father, yes. For this performance she was preparing for, the production surrounded her schedule. That’s why she was always able to make it home before dinner time, but she tended to waken herself at an ungodly hour. So, she was the one who made it harder on everyone else. She was quite the dedicated dame…”

Pride blossoms in her plush cheeks, a tender smile risen. 

“She did not take her role as queen for granted, and worked harder than most performers of her status. She was a woman to be reckoned.”

Hearing Alastor praise her mother so highly is not unusual, but very rare. Each time she’s seen them talk at any point deemed cordial, a few chuckles and jokes were always exchanged, but nothing more. Charlotte never questioned his respect for her. She again remembers their last hours, singing together as mother and daughter while Charlotte undid her hair. 

She said she liked Alastor. Even compared him to her father. 

_She wasn’t wrong._ Quickly, she shakes her head at her mother’s mention of marriage! _So, there are similarities! Simply a coincidence!!_

“Er! Alastor? Were you a fan of mom?”

He purses his lips, fingers cupping his chin. “Of course. Granted, I was not aware she was a queen until after I met you. Your father was quite particular about privacy, even then. Up until her last days, I did hold a great deal of admiration for her.

“Would you say you were friends with her?”

“... No.” She blinks, surprised. “Not quite. I simply respected her. She was a wonderful employer, and every now and then, she invited me to dine with her and your father. It was always a pleasant company. But friendship? That would require me to look at someone as my equal. She was never my equal, nor was I hers. We were simply cordial.”

While he gives no indication of sadness in the revelation, a veil of melancholy overcomes Charlotte. Truly, she has no idea how to take the news, for she does consider him a friend, but from his perspective, she is no one to consider as an equal. 

“That’s a shame…”

“Only if you see it that way, my dear. I protected her as much as the rest of the household, and I enjoyed her company. Now, keep your head high. You need to show yourself like you own the place. Anyone who sees your head down will eat you alive. We need to find the director responsible for the production your mother was a part of.” 

He playfully taps her nose, making her pout, but her chin rises, advice taken to heart. She intends to ask him more on the matter later. 

She’s glad the obstacles are near nonexistent, yet the reason piles question upon question! The sight of them was enough for the sea of people to part, stars and workers alike. Several people she recognized from the pictures stare at them with astonishment, directors, producers, even the janitor off to the corner. Many gape, while some shrink, heads tucking low at the sight of them. 

_Do they know who I am?_ If that’s the case, when did she slip in revealing her identity? The night at the Scarlet Letter? The commotion had tethered the attention of many stars! Who is to say she missed on any paparazzi? She hasn’t looked into the papers lately to be sure! 

“It’s him…” She hears some girls giggling. “He’s so much more handsome in person!”

“Who is that woman with him?”

She whips her head beside her, now even _more_ confused. Is it because of Alastor? 

Nothing of Alastor’s appearance is frightening. Quite the opposite! He is stunning in his _ritzy_ tuxedo, something to attract instead of repel! She watches each surrounding person rush out of the way, even going so far as to open the doors to the office building for them. She clings tight, and whispers in alarm! 

“What is happening? Why does everyone look so scared?”

Alastor clucks, patting her fingers on his elbow. “Fret not! You remember when your father and I left for three days? We stopped here before we completed the arrangements for your mother’s funeral. Not to mention I made a call before coming here so they would arrange for us to see the stage.”

She gasps! “Why didn’t daddy tell me? I would have wanted to come help.”

“He had some private matters to attend to here. Nothing of real concern, darling! Your father may be one who holds his privacy dear, but when he needs to make a point, the impact is a long-lasting one. Though, there may be _another_ reason...” He raises a smirk to a woman on the left, a _bug-eyed Betty_ with large glasses whose hands shook hard enough to spill over her late-night java. 

“When’s the funeral?”

“Two days from now. Look alive now.”

Charlotte pulls herself closer, but forces her chin high. If they know Alastor simply by associating with her father, then they will undoubtedly realize who she is. What he said troubles her. Just what matters did her father have to see here? And what sort of impact did he leave for the workers to part so willingly as the Red Sea? If they fear him, they will fear her! An opposite impression she wishes upon anyone, but neither is she going to display herself as a _weak sister_.

Suddenly, she realizes she’s taking Alastor’s taunt to heart when he questioned her _moxie_ during their horse ride. 

_Darn it!!!_ She fumes!

“Director Cameron Blitzo!” 

A man jumps in his seat, whipping around, and Charlotte immediately thinks she’s looking at the face of a human lobster. His skin is red from a bad sunburn, and his eyes were as bright as stoplights in their white amazement. Instantly, his face drops, turning fully to give a sloppy, and quite exaggerated bow. She smells fresh aloe at his approach. 

“M-Mr. Griffiths!! A pleasure to see you again! You’re here already!?” He says in a fast-paced stammer. 

“It’s the hour we agreed upon, chap.” He drops his elbow, walking back to present Charlotte. “May I introduce her highness, Princess Charlotte Magne!” He bows with a flourish, gesturing dramatically and Charlotte quickly straightens when Blitzo’s eyes grow wider. 

“P-P-P-Princess?” Immediately, he falls face down, on his hands and knees in a wild display of prostration. “I’m so so **so** sorry about your mother, Princess!! If we had known anyone was carrying, we would have taken extra precautions! Please, forgive us!!”

Charlotte schools her features to remain composed, losing to the thinning of her lips to the flash of embarrassment. “No, please... Stand up. I’m not the sort who enjoys anyone to grovel.”

“I am.” She nudges Alastor, glare swift. He chuckles.

“Please, do stand up.” Coming to her knees, she brushes her fingers against Blitzo’s shoulder.

“Aagh!!” But he leaps out of her reach, his face twisted when he jumps back on his rump. 

“Agh!!” Startled to her feet, Alastor’s open arm catches her to his side, but she is too worried for the director to pay any attention. “I-I’m sorry!!”

“Noo! No no no, don’t worry, your highness!” Blitzo cringes, wobbling to his feet. “Just a really bad sunburn…”

“Well, sir, that’s why you should pay more attention to where you stand. You reek of aloe. Anyways, Blitzo, is the stage emptied for our visit? We wish to see it as soon as possible before we venture on.”

Blitzo quickly nods, and Charlotte imagines his head would snap off due to the velocity. “I will be honored to show you! And as a precautionary measure, we’ve already cleaned the whole place, so it should be clean of any residue of the…” He uncomfortably pauses, contemplating tactfully to resign from speaking more of the pandemic. “Anyways! Right this way, Your highness!!”

She lifts a quizzical stare toward her butler, but he only shrugs. Unsatisfied, she whispers. “What on _earth_ did you do to the poor man? It seems there was more than a simple ‘visit’. Everyone looks ready to duck and cover!”

He squeezes her shoulder. “Nothing underhand, I assure you. Some people had to be reminded of their place.”

She’s left with ever growing concern.

_____________________________________

They were driven to the last _picture palace_ of the lot, and by far, the largest one available to actors of higher profiles. Charlotte’s stomach continues its somersaults, her eyes filled with the wonderment of a child’s excitement. The warehouse looks as much the same as the others, save for its sheer size. Two floors, and about as wide as Daddy’s garage of custom-made automobiles, untouched and pristine as diamonds. Did her mother need something so large for such a small part in the picture show? Relatively small, anyways. 

Blitzo goes before them, a book in one hand and a key in the other. The key inserts, the twist of the knob shaking within her a shock of nerves. This is the place her mother performed her last. The door opens to shadow, with only a light switch illuminated by the lights reflected from the other warehouse nearby. She can hear something slosh inside, and the cool of mist enters her nose. The director’s red hand takes the lever firmly and pulls down.

A heavy metallic _thud_ echoes into the interior, a bright flash of light revealing the world encased inside! Her throat hitches, emotion choking her!

The warehouse’s bland shell holds a grander, larger, and much more dazzling opera house on one side and a faux river on the other, connected by a single drawbridge at the edge of the stage to the entrance of a steamboat! **A whole steamboat!** On one corner, rows of seats extend to the walls, and box houses above them are big enough to hold two families each. She is instantly reminded of an opera house in Louisiana, nostalgia aquiver under her skin. Her mother sang in an opera house just like this one, the first of her memories when she heard her sing. Red velvet seats, silver chandeliers, and golden paintings blind the eye. The stage bedazzles in lights, and a pit sits open for a whole orchestra to perform. 

The steamboat bobs in water, a vast pool as big as a small lake. Streetlights stand erect on a plaster sidewalk perpendicular to the steamboat, separate from the lake by a black-chain railing, and dry ice sits beside the edge of the fake river. The surrounding atmosphere bares a foggy night, backgrounds of clouds and a faraway cityscape alit by the luminance of lamps on the boat. Up close, the magic of the scene is lost, but Charlotte can imagine how its beauty would portray on screen. The background will bare its majesty of a starry night eerily creeping with mist and mystery.

“Wow…” She releases Alastor, who watches her stunned silence like he means to remember this moment for years to come. “This… This opera stage. I recognize it.”

Blitzo pipes, pride filling the enclosed space. “It is made to look just like the French Opera House on Bourbon Street before it burned down! The whole production takes place in Louisiana… or it _was_ anyways,” He corrects miserably, “and this steamboat here was supposed to be the scene where the couple would run away on the Mississippi River after your mother completed her performance.”

“I know she must have been beautiful…” Her throat thick, she walks through the rows, imagining herself in her little dress, in awe of her mother who stands on stage more beautiful than any angel she’s seen in any painting. The opera house, in her little girl’s mind, is a castle, a fairytale she thinks was picked from the clouds of heaven. “The most beautiful I ever saw her was _here._ In this opera house.” She studies the details, breathlessly stricken by the memory of this place. Her stomach twists pleasantly, each step a wobbly cadence toward the large stage. She imagines if she stands on it, she would see her reflection so perfectly. “I can’t believe the details. It looks just like the opera house. I saw it when I was a child in Louisiana...” 

Charlotte can’t help but look back in a wave of inertia, Alastor’s expression smug. The innocent shrug does nothing to dissuade her suspicion!

“Did you know, Alastor?”

He nods, tucking his hands behind his back. “I did. In fact, I suggested to Blitzo here a few revisions to some glaring errors when it came to the French Opera House and the Mississippi. Fixing the confusion of French Architecture from German, and how the river itself is a mess of mud and gators from crystal clear waters.” He tosses a glance toward Blitzo, who squirms. Alastor approaches her, lights dancing across his face as she cranes her neck to meet his eyes. “You could say I’ve helped design the stage.”

She’s beside herself! “You mean _you_ made this!”

“I won’t take all the credit, darling. I can do many things, but I did not build this. I simply took part in relaying architectural design. After all…” He turns his back on her, gesturing wildly to the whole warehouse. “I performed at the French Opera House. If this didn’t suit my expectations, they weren’t paying true homage to the wonders of Nawlins.”

She shakes her head in amazement. “You used to _act!?”_

“In my younger years, yes.”

She sputters. “When did you have the time to help design all this?!”

“While you were in New York. Without a source of entertainment, you would be amazed what boredom does to some people, even going to the point of taking time off to help create all this. Your mother approved of my involvement as well.”

“Well, you need to be bored more often!! This is lovely!!”

“Be careful what you wish for, but thank you.”

Joyful abandon in the twirl of her toe, she walks backwards to gesture toward the whole building! “Alastor, you’re amazing!”

“I know.”

She rushes toward the stairs of the stage, all too eager to feel the wood under her shoes. She wants to return to the time, to stand where her mother stood. On the stairs, she soars, light on her feet when she kicks her foot to a grand-battement! Dancing unto the platform, a break of sweat appears on her forehead at the overwhelming heat from the stage lights. Pausing abruptly, she hides her face from the radiance. 

“Comes with the stage, my dear.” He laughs, already aware of what she endures when he watches her from below. “It was the same at the opera house. Do you see yourself on the wood?”

On point, her reflection stares back, wide-eyed. “It’s like a mirror!”

“The stage was always as polished, yet, I suggested a few scuffs and scratches.” He rubs his fingers on his lapel. “Ones _I_ made of course.”

She scoffs, but not surprised. “Did you sing too?”

“Darling, I did it all! I sang, I danced, I acted! Even set design and light design! The stage is my domain. My kingdom. After all, my dear, I have always said ‘The world is a stage; and the stage is a world of entertainment.’” 

She aimlessly walks, looking above and below, beside and behind. The ceiling alone holds no true accuracy to the opera house, but understandably, for the cameras will not be panning toward the ceiling. The curtains are soft under her touch, her heels the only sound save for the water splashing against the boat’s surface. Clasping her hands behind her, she looks to him again, a curious thought arisen, and a soft blush chastising her shyness.

She wants to ask him to join her, but when she musters the courage to speak, he beats her to it.

“You were in New York for the liberal arts, were you not, Charlotte?”

Dazedly, she nods. “Yes. Theater Arts specifically.”

“Were musicals included amongst your classes?”

“Yes.”

“Sing.”

“What!?” Hearing him, she wonders if he realizes he speaks as though _he_ were the employer and she the employee! He holds no embarrassment, not even a waver in his grin. In fact, it only grows larger at the expense of her comfort.

“You told me you overheard your mother rehearse in her bedroom. I want to hear you perform it for yourself.”

“Alastor...” She whispers, hurt. She turns away, suddenly aware the director stands bored in the corner of the warehouse. He does not pay any mind to them at all, looking instead into the book he had carried with him when they arrived. “Come on. You’re embarrassing me.”

“What’s there to be embarrassed about? I am your only audience! Practically!” He nudges to the inattentive Blitzo, laughing!

Her arm crosses over her abdomen, tensely squeezing her bicep. As much as she wishes to tell Blitzo to leave, she does not wish to give him any reason to circulate unbecoming rumors. “... I don’t think I can sing it right now. It’s still painful.” She implores. “Maybe something else… but I don’t want to sing mom’s song. Not yet. It was the last song I heard her sing.” 

His smile slackens. Awkwardness descends its sticky presence, neither able to speak. It was a thoughtless thing to request, and she’s hopeful he will drop the subject. She does not wish to snap at anyone else again. Least of all, against him. The guilt would ravage her more than when she scolded Vagatha.

She’s grateful when he nods understandingly. “I ask your forgiveness.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” She wonders to herself, upset with her unwillingness. Molly said to celebrate her mother’s life, but when an invisible dagger throbs in her heart, she can’t seem to remember the advice. Determinedly, she takes a deep breath, walking toward the edge of the stage until she can fully see Alastor’s entire form.

“But… There is one song I’ll be glad to let you hear. Something I performed for a class reception. I can’t say it’s the happiest tune, but it’s something I worked hard on.” She lights up when he smiles in interest.

“I’ll enjoy what you are willing to give, my lady.”

Appeased, she looks toward the second floor’s row of empty seats. An audience imagined, a little girl dresses above in her finest. A silver and red dress puffed out like cotton candy, golden locks cascading down her back. Her mother, tall and confident, stands where she stands. When she looks down to her one audience, she falters at the thunder in her chest. The audience disappears until there’s one, the one who’s gaze sets her heart aflame. She performed in front of him before!

 _Why should this be different?_ Eyes close, willing to overcome herself. _If he does not enjoy it, then he does not enjoy it. But if I’m going to perform…_

“Let’s share some tit for tat. If I’m to perform something, then you need to as well.” He snickers.

“What’s the dance of the song you will perform?”

“A waltz.”

He then raises his hand toward her, grin meeting her challenge with the flippant gesture. “Then let us waltz to your song, and you’ll have your tit-for-tat. Deal?”

She reels a step, suddenly unsure she wants to accept anymore deals from him. One deal has led her here, and after a fight with Vagatha. Almost certainly, taking on another would unleash some forces at work to his benefit; Yet, outside the walls, away from the eyes of naysayers, where’s the harm is such a silly trade?

With a giggle, she regains her tranquility. “Deal.”

“Then, if you will, your highness…”

Eyes set above, she exhales from her solar plexus, guiding a hand to her abdomen to act as her anchor to sing from her stomach instead of her throat. A position to project for all the audience to hear.

**Those who dance and romance while they dance**

She pauses, a breath exhaled to absorb her mind into cadence, head bobbing in time with the orchestra in her mind.

**They seem so happy and gay**

**Though they sing and they swing as they sway**

**Somehow I can't feel that way**

The classes were a rigorous curriculum, a grueling exercise to a thespian’s success. She loved it, though, especially when she could pick the song her heart resonated with the most. In the gramophone’s record, she recalls the instruments played a too joyful tune in the bitter message of a girl who sways in the arms of a man, all the while she longs for another. Such a painful reminder, yet a comforting one to know how the singer knows her plight so well, even though the princess did not want to accept why she related at the time.

When she stood by Seviathan, believing herself in love with someone who smiled just as much as _him,_ who could wow a crowd just as easily as _him,_ who could make her laugh as much as _him,_ she thought she had at last found someone like _him._ One fateful evening, long after she learned of the true cruelty Seviathan hid under his cloaking smile, did she realize while she sang this song, she had blinded herself to the brand new development in the center of her heart.

**For I'm dancing with tears in my eyes**

**'Cause the boy in my arms isn't you**

**Dancing with somebody new**

**When it's you that my heart's calling to**

She blinded herself to the blossoming affections toward the man who mirrors her steps below. Her arms gesture to the room, lost in their beckon as she sways one step after another, flows on the tips of her toes for a twirl. Toward the stairs she floats, blind to beauty of the pros, but not the man who stands beneath the steps. The man who saved her. Whom she grew up with. She can no longer stifle what she knows to be true.

Even though she does not want to tell him.

**Trying to smile once in a while**

**But I find it so hard to do**

So many say to speak out when their hearts refuse to be reined, but how many grew up with the man who holds her eye? How many grew up with laughter, friendship, and safety from the object of their affection? Why would she want to trade the comfort she feels from him for a moment of a silly, passing puppy crush? How many of them have a father who holds tightly to her fate? 

_Would he do something to Alastor if he learns?_

**For I'm dancing with tears in my eyes**

The emotion fills her voice, tingling to the bouncing waltz the closer he walks toward her. She watches him, Alastor walking in time to her song, a metronome between each march. A step and he stands before her. Another step, and she does not back away. Another, then another, his wingtips glossy under the stage lights, and his diacles glare like stars. Until he towers over her, his shadow casting over her like a veil of night, his eyes intense as the bloody moon.

**'Cause the boy in my arms isn't you**

He reaches out, her acceptance immediate to the silk glove curling around her fingers. Her mind chains to the lyricists reciprocated sorrow, and the unrequited longing which willingly allows him near. He holds her palm as daintily as a handkerchief, bodies inches apart in a single tug, the appropriate distance maintained; yet how his warmth tantalizes. His hand reaches behind her, and plants just below her shoulder blades. She pauses for a moment, unsure of what he dares, but he simply nods, a silent request for her continuation as he pulls them into a spin. 

**While the throng's in the spell of a song**

**My thoughts keep drifting to you**

**While each pair seems to share their affair**

**They're making me blue**

Her voice remains pristine, a crystal spell weaving through the few ears to entice. Blitzo even blinks, and looks up curiously. He stills at the stunning display of a faultless waltz, a watcher to an unusual outcome of any tourist. Alastor and Charlotte effortlessly flow closer to the drawbridge leading to the steamboat. Alastor lifts her hand above, pulling her into a spin. She flows like water, subconscious to each signal. She does not falter in her breaths, nor does she pause to recollect the tune's cadence when they continue on the metal bridge. Her nose fills with the mildew of wet wood, her skin chills with the mist of a warm lake. Yet she is confident in the safety of his arms. She’s always felt safest here.

**For I'm dancing with tears in my eyes**

**'Cause the boy in my arms isn't you**

Soles tap unto the polished wood. Their world lurches, her balance bewildering when she falls helplessly into a trap of sandalwood and human warmth. The spice enters her senses, bewitches her to the pendulum’s lethargic motion, and at the mercy of a Louisianan enchantment. She holds fast to her rhythm, eyes closing under his overwhelming presence, her anchor in the practiced memory of the song’s pattern. 

He holds fast to her, hands on her back when he slowly spins with her. He allows her feet to readjust, and the tempo to return. He is patient, and gentle when his hands return to the correct positions. Now, however, he is closer than necessary for a gentleman who desires to correct a missed count. So, she continues, her voice unwavering. 

**Dancing with somebody new**

**When it's you that my heart's calling to**

Her eyes open, catching his amber gaze and she is daring. Effortlessly, he guides her across the stern, and she, obedient and fearless. The silly trade-off she truly means without malice, she finds herself aloft in the tempos prance. Confidence in him and herself resurfaces. The water shall not falter her, nor her heart will make a fool of her. Not as long as he stabilizes her. Her heart may be lost to him, but the tears she poured are dried. And this deal she will face with a spirit she nurtured in that cruel city. She is stronger. Wiser.

_There’s no need to ruin what is already beautiful._

  
  


**Trying to smile once in a while**

**But I find it so hard to do**

**For I'm dancing with tears in my eyes**

Yet once she looks into his eyes, she already questions the resolve. Firmly shackled into the rhythm he sets, she follows with vigorous ease; a puppet challenging the puppet master. Yet she sees something. Feels something in the gentle grip and the tender leadership. His long, silent stare never moves from her face, a silent beguilement in his radiance. His hand is warm on her waist, and his eyes, so beautiful in their earthen opulence.

In a final twist, she is captured in his arms in the final dip, her voice stringing in breathless wonder.

**'Cause the boy in my arms isn't you...**

A panting end poses them at the stern’s dance floor, the firm hold on her back a tether to a reality both euphoric and frightening. Alastor gently cradles her hand so near his warm lips. Neither dare to move. She wants to stay like this, where she can dream. Stop the clock and bar the world outside. The boat bobs under them, the golden lights painting his features in a new hue of his autumn skin. Sweats hints a sheen on his forehead, the mist dewing their skin with a tender glare. 

Silence overtakes them, yet for the length of their wordlessness, it is but a blissful moment. He blinks, his lips parting, but nothing is said. Thoughts are rendered silent, only hearts thrumming through a shared pulse. The world no longer holds any importance. She can feel a small trace of breath on her cheek, cloaking her skin in an untouched kiss. 

“Charlotte…” 

The sound of his voice awakens them, and the spell breaks. As she feels him pulling her to her feet, the sorrow returns with the realization of the masquerade’s end. 

“… Ahem.” Alastor clears his throat, pulling his hands behind his back when he looks away. Even Charlotte feels somewhat embarrassed, unable to face him when she looks out to the rest of the props. Though they did nothing inappropriate, something of this moment seems so scandalous! “Your… dancing has much improved, princess.”

“... I didn’t know you danced so well, Alastor.”

“Excuse me?”

Charlotte gasps, embarrassed. “No! No! I didn’t mean it like that! It’s just, I remember the few times we danced, it was always a simple step! The waltz seems awfully slow for you!”

He laughs, waving a palm. “Fret not, my dear. I was not offended. Merely confused,” He offers his arm to her, sighing another laugh. “Though for the record, I danced simple steps with you because you still had a hard time keeping time.”

“Well… how’d I do this time?”

“Save for when we stepped onto the boat, _very_ well. Though, we can’t exactly judge your footwork on a moving surface.” He shrugs.

“Proud of me?”

“Extremely.”

“Wonderful! As for the Charleston?” Now it is her turn to grow smug. “I know for a fact I’ll be able to keep up now.”

His brow bounces. “Really, now?”

“Willing to make another deal if I prove it?”

He chortles, all the more intrigued by her newfound confidence. “Perhaps.”

She pouts playfully, taking his arm with a laugh. 

“Are you satisfied with your visit?”

She nods, beaming. “Absolutely.”

“Splendid. Then let’s carry on. There’s a place I’ve been meaning to take you. You haven’t had dinner yet, I assume?”

She shakes her head while he leads them back unto the drawbridge, Charlotte nearly bounces in her step at the knowledge their night only begins. They’re in Hollywood! There is so much to explore! Director Blitzo stands by the streetlight, his expression confused, if somewhat intrigued by the impromptu dance number he witnessed. 

“Um… Are you two auditioning or...?”

“Oh, no!” Charlotte corrects. “I wasn’t here to audition. We were simply... “ She looks to Alastor, hoping he can offer a better answer than what might tumble out of her mouth.

“Lost in thought, director. We’re done for the evening, so could you please drive us back to the automobile?”

“Y-Yes, Mr. Giffiths. Your highness!” Blizto bows again in a clumsy stance, quick to rush out to prepare a cart when the director pauses to speak to Charlotte. “But for the record… if you’re interested, princess…?” He pulls out his business card, but Alastor takes it in her stead. 

“That will be all now, Blitzo.”

Understanding the gravity in Alastor’s voice, he rushes out to prepare the automobile.

“Ready?”

“More than I can say! Where are we going now?”

Alastor points a finger to the ceiling, humor in his exaggerated march toward the door! Charlotte giggles, extending her stride to keep up. “A haven where all of the stars of Hollywood convene after a hard day’s work, _ma cherie!_ ”

“What? The Red Carpet?”

“Better! Have you ever heard of The Montmarte?”

“Like the village in Paris?”

He laughs, pleased with the extent of her education. “No! No! My dear! Brandstatter’s Café Montmartre in Hollywood.”

Charlotte’s jaw drops! “We’re going there?!”

“Even better, my dear. We will be esteemed guests.”

________________________________________

The night is young, the stars aglow to celebrate an evening of more unknown surprises. She supposes the excitement stems from the wild invitation extended from the stables, or the dance they shared back at the stage! A new spirit reinvigorates, and she’s ready to face the evening with a brand new gusto. The concerns of any scandal are lost, and she’s ready to celebrate! Her mother deserves to be remembered fondly. The daring is a gulp of adrenaline, the flying lights now a legion of angels flying beside them at breakneck speed. There is something rather _addictive_ in doing the unexpected, something untamable in its allure. She turns to Alastor who looks back with a knowing smirk. The pain, for one moment, is gone, and they are dancing again at the masquerade.

Once they arrive at Cafe Montmarte, Charlotte is immediately assaulted by yet another stun of the spectacular lights and glamor! Starlets and stars walk hand in hand across a red carpet in mimicry of the Hollywood hallmark! Gems glow in silk headdresses of lithe actresses, and some actors enter in the most outrageous colors to blind the eye in a splash of mismatched disaster! She never understands why some people have to make themselves known as fools! But then she recognizes his face. 

“That’s _Harold Lloyd!!”_ She gasps!

“And if you look there, you’ll see _Buster Keaton.”_

Her hand flies to her face, her nerves alight! “Oh, my! He’s much more gloomy to look at in person!”

“Not much of a talker, either.” 

She looks back at him again, eyes narrowed suspiciously. He again dissuades her with a laugh, reaching back for something in the backseat. Charlotte recoils when he pulls up a red top hat onto his lap, his smile now impish when he slows the vehicle at the entrance. “Are you ready?”

She nods, smile beaming. Valets open their door on each side, but Alastor is quick to run to Charlotte’s side to guide her by the hand. 

He tips his hat to her, but he does not look ridiculous at all when he sets it back on his head. “... I didn’t think you could look so handsome in a top hat.”

He chuckles, pulling her hand to wrap his elbow. “Well, I always knew a smile suited you better than a frown…”

She blinks, suddenly realizing she actually had been smiling all this time. Her cheeks are even hurting! 

“Tu as l'air radieuse, ma princesse…”

Her hand comes presses into her throbbing chest. She always adores when he speaks French, and responds with confidence.

“Merci, Monsieur…”

Hors d'oeuvres are offered to them at the carpet, and glasses of wine are shown openly at the door! She nearly shrieks, her shock reined in.

“Wine?!”

Alastor laughs. “I said this was a haven for all of Hollywood. Did you think it could be a haven without a good _jorum of skee?”_

The inside is even more dazzling than the front! A trumpet’s trill shrieks its song across the halls, the tables aligned with singers, songwriters, poets, actors, and even politicians! 

“This way, Mr. Griffiths!” There’s something odd with the way the people stare. There’s nothing truly amazing about being recognized on the spot, but Alastor’s last name has been buzzing on people’s lips. Unusual recognition, especially for a butler. It’s throwing her into a whole new bout of confusion. They are offered a special table hovering on a floor above the dancefloor. Sparkling dancers flow below, yet she is too impatient for answers. 

“What is going on? Why does everyone know you?” Alastor chuckles, taking up a glass of _Panther’s piss_ while he looks at her over the brim of the crystal glass. “Did you come here for business with daddy as well?”

“No. I simply know a few faces from my past.”

“I doubt everyone here is from New Orleans!”

He chuckles. “All will be revealed in due time, my dear. For now, let’s pick something from the menu. I know you haven’t been eating well.”

From his words, she recognizes a pang of hunger. _Good heavens! How long has it been_ **_since_ ** _I ate a full meal?_ Her appetite practically ended the evening of her mother’s illness, so to feel a bit of pain in her stomach truly is something to celebrate. So, she orders without embarrassment of the portions to come.

She ate a full plate of suppreseta and charred asparagus bruschetta, flavored with garlic olive oil, and a full course meal of scallops lying on a bed of mushroom risotto! And of course, as soon as she saw it on the menu, she helped herself to two beignets with a frothy cappuccino! Alastors settles for his usual veal steak, with fried alligator skins and a black coffee with his whiskey. They ate in silence, enjoying the company and music. 

Charlotte is careful to burp behind a napkin when she looks down to the dance floor, her foot tapping to the roar of the drums pounding below. 

“Alastor?”

“Hm?”

“How long has it been since we tried the Charleston together?”

He narrows his eyes in thought. “Mm… Give or take, maybe three years ago?” 

A large grin pops across her face, a perfect row of teeth piercing him in the chest in their ivory glory. He watches the way the candlelight plays with the different molds of her face, how it accentuates the pinks of her cheeks. Even her lips seem redder in the dim light, the burnished walls giving a glow to her skin like a polished bronze. Her lashes flutter, a pause taken when her eyes begin to stare with invitation. The way she tilts her face, and the way her soft skin glimmers, he allows himself to study with secret abandon. 

“Ask me to dance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS SO LOOOOOONG BUT IT WAS WORTH IIIT!! 
> 
> These artists were such amazing people to create content based on the Red Stag's Graveyard! Please give a follow for @BobaTired, @dae_danie, and @astriacreations of Twitter, and you can follow me @Wifeofthesoules on Twitter as well! I will also create a fancomic based on this story!
> 
> https://twitter.com/BobaTired/status/1282888780995792898?s=20
> 
> https://twitter.com/dae_danie/status/1267067563235672065?s=19
> 
> https://twitter.com/dae_danie/status/1268101779922677761?s=19
> 
> https://twitter.com/astriacreations/status/1290273637514141696?s=20
> 
> https://twitter.com/dae_danie/status/1275717909193592833?s=19
> 
> Jinglebrained- drunk
> 
> Zozzled- drunk
> 
> Boozehounds- alcoholic
> 
> Proskirts- prostitutes
> 
> Gaspers- cigarettes  
> bug-eyed Betty: Unattractive woman
> 
> Sod: moron
> 
> Harold Lloyd!: A silent comedy actor of the 20s
> 
> Buster Keaton: Silent comedy actor of the 20s
> 
> Panther’s piss: whiskey
> 
> Louise Brooks: was an American film actress and dancer during the 1920s and 1930s. She is regarded today as a Jazz Age icon and as a flapper sex symbol due to her bob hairstyle that she helped popularize during the prime of her career.[1][2][3]


	13. Hey, Pachuco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do I hold you, or kill you?
> 
> This canary, my sweet, my angel of night?
> 
> What shall I do?
> 
> Release you afar until you are far enough to fall to my bullet?

The morning after the queen’s death, when he left with the king, he didn't keep himself from looking back into the rearview mirror, almost clinging to her image in a natural pull of inertia. She was watching from the window, standing there for as long as he drove, until her image disappeared at the turn of the corner. He could almost imagine she could sense he was watching her. There was no smile on those pretty lips, and the rage he entombed within his core blossomed. 

_This is getting old._ He thought.

Since her return, her light reappeared half-formed, almost doused into a lukewarm flame. Her laughter still chimed, but it was dampened. Her smile ever risen, yet anchored by muted thoughts. Alastor’s been to the Big Apple plenty of times to know its depraved patterns. New York is known to awaken the ambitious and starry-eyed optimists to its grotesque underbelly, raping the innocent in the quiet roar of corruption as they seek out the sleepless city for a chance for easy riches. The stocks have never been higher, and the news bray nonstop of a new record of yet another rocket in shares. The city congested of new-monies rubbing elbows with those born of old riches, and the perfect congregation of mafioso.

He had been wary of her leave, strangely to him. Her jaded smile only confirmed his previous caution, for like any young woman who ventures the city for aspirations to be a star on Broadway, they learn the glitz, glamour, and money hid the teeth of a greedy enterprise, feeding on the young and beautiful until they were spat out into bloody husks of their former selves.

Such relief filled him to see her kindness remained, yet her eyes came back heavier, her optimism chipped like a teacup. A small, insignificant missing piece of her stirred him, and not in the way he’s quite familiar with. 

_Why did I care so much?_

He had initially shrugged it off, for he’s aware of humanity’s cruel cycle. The cycle tears down a man into a husk, and even Alastor became a victim to its barbarous tricks, until he mastered the inhuman craft into a game. Where he is the director, the producer, the light technician, and the orchestra who set the mood and the music, and he is free to choose his unwitting thespians. He writes their scripts and has final say in their prearranged decisions. He bests the tumultuous storms of the unknown into a tedious rhythm; yet when she came back, fraught with thoughts and a ridiculously naive dream to save those less fortunate from the life of crime, he couldn’t help but feel an _itch_.

One he would not scratch until her first tear was shed, caused by her mother’s untimely death.

The final straw.

Charlotte’s meager smile at last tipped to nonexistence by the queen’s illness. Just a mere, little pinprick of a fake, barely visible smile remained during the times anything could win an inch of emotion, even during the times she had given a weak laugh no better than the pathetic whistle of a deflating balloon. Those tears stung him, as though they were intrusive needles irritating his skin! Those crystals, which cause his absolute disgust or bark of laughter when their appearance is caused by his doing, nagged at him! On her, they were offensive and unwelcome, because nothing, absolutely _nothing,_ should ever steal away her smile from him. Not this earl _schmuck,_ Seviathan, nor the queen’s death!

The entire time he was ordered to leave the manor, all he wanted was to return home as soon as possible. He has to get it back. He has to get _her_ back; back before New York cannibalized the princess he knew.

Now, that his blade drank well, he can finally see to this goal.

“Ask me to dance.”

Yet, when she looks at him like that, expectations in the flutter of her black lashes, Alastor finds himself a sort bewildered by how quickly his musings are replaced by the trance she casts unto him. How strange he is so willing to sit and openly consider her soft command, his glass tipped toward his lips in a curious sip. There is a psyche he dons like his favorite fedora, when he must obey the royal family. Here, the psyche blurs into an undefinable companionship where he can freely reject or blindly follow. 

That is the dilemma. He _wants_ to follow this order, yet for the sake of his pride, his lips remain locked to the crystal seam of his tumbler, watching her under his lashes. Under the candlelight, she glows an angelic cascade of gold, raining pearls framing the shy glamour of her red cheeks. The most he gives her is the playful bob of his eyebrows. Truly, he _was_ going to be the one to ask her, but for her to take initiative is a new side he finds intriguing. She grows ever more interesting, head tilted in a familiar habit of coyness he’s learned to read when she has a bright idea.

He adores that smile. It is a puzzle to solve, really, for if anyone took the lead over him, he finds it in bad taste. Charlotte somehow, however indirectly, influences him to perhaps _consider_ the command.

Not for long, for the choice would not be his to make when she literally decides to make the decision for him, on her feat as her steps count the beat of a song, walking up to him to offer her hand. 

_Not going to wait for an answer, are you?_

He raises a single brow, amused when he looks between her hand to her eyes, a coquettish smile on her lips. It’s moments like this he recalls what she is. Behind the sweet smile and welcoming laughter is a princess, confidence unbridled. 

The king’s voice whispers in his ear, a command he gave before he left, but he silences the niggling thought, rests his jaw on his knuckles in silent contemplation. Her smile never wavers, her shoulder shrugging with a dazzle of diamond dust.

_My, how is it you remain so adorable, my princess?_

He places aside the glass, and takes her hand then. Her delightful gasp tickles when he towers over her, their bodies only a whisper’s breath away by a single tug. He does not release her, staring long at her incredulous features, her pink lips ajar. 

How can one woman be so enticing?

_I’m just going to have a little fun first._

He pulls her hand up and twists her in place, delighting in another gasp when he pulls her back, her back to his chest, nose at her ear, where he indulges in the soft perfume. He cradles both of her hands from behind, eyes sly with when he meets her quizzical stare. 

“May I have this dance,” He whispers into her ear, tendrils of yellow fluttering with each breath, “Charlotte Adeline Mary-Beth Olivia Magne?”

He watches her ear shift from a white shell to a perfect pink, reflective of a sea shell freshly picked from soft sand. Her wide, black eyes beckon, lips agape in breathless surprise. The confidence melts from the warmth overtaking her pale beauty, inspiring a soft chuckle arisen with each second of change. She is simply too much fun to agitate, and he’ll strive for each delicious new experience of expressions. She is his star, his lead actress, unbeknownst to her predetermined fate. 

And he can already repeat the words she’ll say, already imagine the shyness stuttering her words. “Y-You may…” Just like that.

Satisfied, he releases one hand to reach for the last swig of his _bootleg._ “We could not have chosen a better night. There’s a dance contest tonight.”

“What?” She stares dumbly when he places down the empty glass, guiding her by the hand across the sparkling tables. 

_________________________________

  
  


He keeps himself from stumbling when she tugs him back in place, the podium where names are taken sits just across the dancefloor. “Are you sure? Don’t you think it’s too risky? What if I’m recognized?”

Alastor laughs, bapping away her concerns. “Darling, I’m afraid it’s too late to worry about that. You see that reporter there?”

Charlotte looks behind her. A blond woman, angled face framed with a short bob, busies herself to a _fag_ and a half-eaten tiramisu. A sits camera by her side _,_ hawk-like eyes staring clearly in their direction. She stares daggers when Charlotte meets her gaze. 

“That there is Katie Killjoy, and she’s a top-notch reporter. Comes here every Wednesday and Friday. She’s been staring at us ever since we walked in.”

Charlotte gapes. “But if that’s true, then why did you bring us here tonight of all nights? Daddy’s going to be furious!”

“Quite the contrary, my dear!”

Charlotte scrutinizes, clearly unappreciative of the secrecy. 

“While we were gone, your father actually relieved his hold on that rule of his to remain in secrecy, and it was well he did.” He lowers his face until his gaze levels with hers. “You’ve learned to be ashamed of your power, your highness.”

Surprise halts his stride, her strength realized when she pulls him back. He bends over to prevent another stumble, her heels clacking furiously with his wingtips to white marble when she pulls them into a hallway. To both of their surprise, she finds a quiet little alcove, possibly serving as a resting area for any who wish to escape the crowds. The distinct aroma of tobacco clings to the walls. A smoker’s corner. She releases him then, lips pressed thin when she turns with a determined step, one he faces with neither retreat nor quaver to his patient smile. 

“Don’t call me that in public…” She squirms at the clumsiness in her voice reverberating back to her, and Alastor sighs. This unwillingness of the spotlight is very diverse of the confidence he knows is tucked tightly under her evasive stare. She begins to pull away, intending to sit on the alcove window, overlooking the dark pavement splashed in golden lamplight. Radiant automobiles pass by from outside, filling the silence between them.

He does not allow her to pull away, though, when he reaches out with an asps swift strike. His gentle grip, his pointer and thumb, traps her chin, taking back her attention.

“My dear, understand something.” Her eyes flutter, her cheeks overtaken in a new dust of pink. Her face is warm in his fingers, and with a pause of admiration, he lulls to study her open expressions. What a treasure trove she is, full of hidden delights. “... I shall continue calling you by your name as you request, but the more you reject that title of yours, the more you will be looked at like some _canceled stamp_ off the side of the street. I don’t know what this Earl _fella_ did to you to make you doubt yourself so inaccurately.”

She tenses in his hold, but he does not release her, tracing his nail on the pink seam beneath her painted rosebud lips. She remains obedient, her eyes shining in their onyx thoughts. 

“But I will promise you: He won’t have another opportunity to steal your light again. No one will. And we will begin by reminding all of Hollywood you are someone not to be trifled with. And if they try...”

He can already see the bodies piling, the red to water the grounds. The forest will run red, and the stags will leave bloody prints all over the forest ground. He’ll drench the labyrinth in blood. The trees will be their tombstones. If he ever gets his hands on Seviathan, damned be the consequences. He’ll wrench his intestines from his gut and decorate the ferns in his organs!

His smile grows hungrily, but his vile thoughts remain silent. He can’t tell her that. No, her kind-hearted nature would mourn Seviathan’s life, even if he hurt her. So, she shall never know, and remain happily ignorant of the _sod_ rotting in some ditch. 

“Well… Let’s just say I’ll do something they’ll never forget.” Given he’ll have brains left to remember.

He watches her black gaze blink, and he ponders her thoughts. Quiet contemplation inhales through her nose as he feels her jaw relax, her eyes drifting closed. He slackens his grip, mindlessly tracing her soft, warm jawline as he pulls back. Nothing is spoken between them, a pause of silence neither awkward nor unwelcome descending. A smile, however small, finally returns to her features, once more genuine and bright, but not without the awkward laughter he supposes is the result of her speechlessness.

When he toys with thoughts of how amusing it would be to be the ender of her regrowing smiles, he is at odds with a new grip of _chagrin._ His hand returns to its proper place to his back, troubling reflections recalled _._ Lately, he’s had a consistent onslaught of… curiosities considering his charge. Thoughts he is quite _certain_ he should not entertain. In fact, there is more to the inconsistencies of his wayward kindnesses, for he considers his words a touch more seriously. 

He made a _promise_ to her. A promise. He is proficient in deals, not promises. It is no predicament, of course. Simply a difference of approach to achieve his goals. 

_Still, a_ **_promise?_ **

“Thank you… but Alastor…” His brief moment of unnecessary self-reflection shortens by the curious timbre in her voice. “It’s not _completely_ because of Seviathan that I’m… doubtful.” 

“Really, now? Then is it because of your mother?”

“It’s several things. The things I saw, the people who were scattered and forgotten. Dying without anyone reaching out to help them. Anthony, his addictions, his sister! Being told I’m not good enough to be called ‘princess’! That I’m just as good as a ‘ _proskirt_ in _glad-rags_!’”

“Beg your pardon?” His nails dig into his palm. Oh, he’ll certainly _have the curse on_ that _Lug._

“Now, daddy wants me to get _insured_ just so I can have his approval for funding a project I want to use to help people!!”

An unpleasant twist returns to his stomach, fingernails dragging deeper into his palm. He suddenly recalls how much he wants to kill the king by his own hand, yet how he must remain meticulous and careful, despite how close he was to him these past three days, planning, scheming, talking in the wee hours of the night while they traced back the small group of people amongst Lillith’s circle. Yet if he had cut open his throat as he imagined during breakfast, lunch, and dinner, not only would it have been such a boring climax. He also would have, easily, been the first suspect. He wants this stage to have the most spectacular conclusion. His tiny influences are moving things along. Slowly, but surely.

 _Patience… patience…_ She continues, pulling him from his thoughts when he sees a beacon of anger, a fire stirring with every word and reason in her gaze. A delicious passion! 

“But the worst of it was while Seviathan and I dated…” She lightly gnaws at her lips, looking this way and that, as long as she doesn’t look at him. He’s almost tempted to take her face again and keep her gaze on him, just to see her fury. “All I could think about was--”

“Alastor Griffiths **?”**

His jaw tenses, his nose twitching when his grin grows into a snarl. Oh, how he _despises_ interruptions. Turning behind, his eyes narrow into dangerous slits of the unwelcome presence. A pale-haired woman far beyond his age struts in with the elegance of Hollywood royalty, a maroon dress draping her lithe figure, a _brooksy_ ensemble which holds to the arts of fashion from the 1900s. Crimson drapes to her body in a corset and skirt moving like a bell, each step a hash click of marble. Soft wrinkles of crow’s feet enhance the ripeness of her grace, diamonds reflected on a choker reaching up to her sharp, ivory jawline. Her height towers, all the more intimidating in the red boots peeking under her billowing skirt. Lips curl into a coquettish smile, thick lashes decorating the pale blue gaze alternating between the pair. On her middle digits are finger-length rings, both pointed into golden claws meant to empty a _bird’s_ jugular were he stupid enough to surprise her. Her pale yellow bob shines with a perfect coiffeur illuminated with garnets twined with gold.

Were this any other time, he would be thrilled to see her again, and for a _very_ different matter.

“I’m sorry, Madam, but I’m afraid we’re in the middle of something.”

“No, no, Alastor, it’s alright! It’s not _that_ important!” He blinks at a breathless Charlotte, her face beet-red when she walks around him to acknowledge the older woman. “Hello there! If you’re here for a _gasper,_ we’ll leave the room for you!”

The woman remains quiet, her scrutiny purposely invasive. Alastor knows she means to cause discomfort, for Rosie is a companion to whom he can relate; and due to this relation, knows well she does not intend to leave them to their privacy. He turns fully, hands to his back when he bows low to the tall woman. 

“My dear Madame Rosie, how do you do this evening? I see you forgot your manners!” Her sharp eyes harden, something he notes with a bit of amusement. She interrupts them, so he’ll gladly return the favor for her rudeness. “Please, allow me to introduce--”

“...What the hell are you doing with Lillith’s daughter...?” She sings melodically.

Alastor deadpans, Charlotte gasping behind him. 

_“_ Yes, I’m aware of who you are!” She mocks.

Alastor looks out of the hallway where they left behind crowds of people, just out of earshot. He tilts his head, warning in his smile, one she meets with a hum on her lips. A musical giggle flutters, a thin hand whipping toward her chest. 

“Oh, dear, do forgive my boldness, poppet, but I’m more curious about _you,_ Mr. Griffiths.” She does not bow, but simply turns her regal head toward Alastor, her lashes like bladed feathers. “You made quite the spectacle this past Wednesday.”

"I’m afraid that’s something that must be discussed another time, Madame Rosie. I’d rather not discuss work on my evening off.”

“Off? And you’re _lollygagging_ with a princess _?”_

Alastor, ready with a _jive,_ is quickly silenced by Charlotte’s sharpness. “Excuse me, but please don’t say it so loudly. And we are not ‘ _lollygagging_ ’.”

Alastor reaches for her shoulder. “ _Ish kabibble,_ my dear! Madame tends no harm. She ‘knows’ better.” They exchange a pair of knowing smiles, secrets decades old traded in a single glance. As much as he enjoys Charlotte’s fire, this is a particular woman she shouldn’t speak so thoughtlessly. 

He sees Rosie, however, finds her reaction awfully entertaining, judging from the smirk growing on her lips. “No need for a squabble _,_ poppet. When this man stands in my line of sight, I simply must _razz_ him, you see? _”_

Charlotte frowns, inquisitive. “You are friends…?”

“Most certainly, your highness! For _years.”_ Alastor answers, unenthused.

“She’s a _bright young thing_ , isn’t she, Alastor. Oh, looks just like her dear mother!”

She lights up. “Oh… Were you a fan, Madame?”

“Actually,” Alastor presses his hand to Charlotte’s back, once more interjecting, “Princess, allow me to make the introductions. I’ve known her long before I came to work for your family. Madame Rosie Lorraine Gray-DuBois. Madame here descends from a long line of tailors once familiar with the Royal Family in England. She broke off the tradition and came to America to become a world renown costume designer for the paramours of Hollywood. Your mother was one she frequently designed for. It just so _happened_ she was a queen as well.” 

“And a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh, Princess Charlotte! Oh, your dear mother would always procure a photograph of you and your father! What a prize it was to her! She would show it so often, I memorized the bloody thing! You and your father were her entire world!” She takes Charlotte’s hands, and so narrowly, she almost yanks them away, for she is assaulted with a brush of cold; much like the blood is completely drained from Madame’s hands. Rosie’s face finally shifts from the maniacal grin into something more genuine, and the cold, piercing eyes finally reflect the warmth of the summer sky. “I am ever regretful of your mother’s passing, my dear. She truly was a star this world did not deserve.”

Alastor rolls his eyes, but the condolences soften the atmosphere into a friendly space, for Charlotte softens under her gaze.

“Th… thank you. It’s been really hard without her, even though she’s been gone for a short time.”

“One day at a time, poppet! But you could have certainly chosen a better companion to spend the evening with!”

“Madame…” Alastor warns, but the princess giggles pleasantly.

“Oh, tish-tosh, Alastor! You know I'm _razzing_.”

“Indeed, but we were on our way for the contest.”

Rosie stops then, rising fully erect to give the butler her full attention. “The contest? You’ll be participating?”

“Indeed.” 

“With the princess?”

“ _Now you’re on the trolley,_ my dear.” Alastor’s smile grows proudly, but Rosie’s expression darkens with a hidden mischief.

“My, my, dear boy, whatever are you up to?”

“I haven’t the foggiest of what you’re saying.”

He sees Rosie is not convinced, and she turns to the young woman with an excited step. 

“Poppet, I simply must borrow your date for a spell! Please, rest your feet while we have a moment!”

“No, Madame Rosie, that isn’t necessary. We best _breeze off_.” She does not listen to either him or Charlotte’s weak protests as she’s already pulling her toward the alcove, Rosie’s gentle force coaxing her to sit near the window. She whispers quickly, then shuffles towards Alastor. He openly rolls his eyes for Rosie’s acknowledgement, and she snorts, displeased, but adamant.

So, he gives in to her insistence, looking to Charlotte apologetically. “I’ll be quick, your highness.”

She nods, understanding. “I’ll be right here. Don’t worry. It seems urgent.”

He winks his exit, following her to the other end of the hallway where they are out of earshot to another alcove at the end, more extravagant with lavish pillows and even a depression of wood surrounding the anterior where the lounger can reach for grapes and beverages.

Both remain standing, impatient for very different reasons.

“ _Spill!_ You’re up to something.”

“Who are you to _give me the third_ , dear Rosie?”

“I thought you weren’t working right now.”

“I’m not.”

“This has nothing to do with the king’s _lather_ at all? _”_

Alastor simply shrugs inconsequentially.

“Even if you don’t use her name, there are plenty here who will recognize you! It will go back to _her,_ then God knows who else!”

 _"Tell it to Sweeney,_ my dear _._ From what I recall, you could care less for others' well-being. _”_

As urgent as she sounds, Rosie is truthfully _excited_ for some tit-for-tat, however tight her lips are for only particularly corrupted ears (his own). She displays a kind-faced, maternal figure when she tries, but Rosie’s true concern never truly goes beyond _herself._ Much like himself, in fact. The little show she gave for winning Charlotte’s compliance was a simple ruse. It was rather nauseating hearing her just then, praising the queen she complained about only two days ago. 

Everything she said to Charlotte was contradictory to what he heard, telling him Queen Lillith ‘was extremely talented, but also very vain, and frankly, annoying with her talk about her child and husband. While she is not glad she passed on, she _is_ glad she won’t have to hear another word of her dull, family stories! 

It would have been funny had she not been indirectly insulting Charlotte at the time.

“You _do_ intend to expose her, don’t you? What, now that Mimzy’s little stunt revealed your face, are you willing to remove all forms of anonymity and make it easier to find you by the _trouble boys_ you so hate? While involving a _flat tire,_ of all things? _”_

“Mind yourself, my dear.” He chastises sharply. “Charlotte is no _flat tire_.”

Powder blue eyes flash. “Tetchy, are we?” She blinks, alarmed.“You called her ‘Charlotte’!”

Alastor’s smile twitches. “She requested I call her by her name during casual affairs. This would be considered a ‘casual affair’.”

“That’s _extremely_ casual, even for you, Mr. Griffiths.”

“Is there anything more you would like to discuss, Madame? Because I would like to continue my evening if all you intend to do is interrogate me.”

Rosie scoffs, surrendering. “Fine, fine! Gracious, it’s like talking to a wall with you!”

“A rather fine wall, wouldn’t you say?” He adjusts his bowtie, turning when he calls after her. “I have those measurements for the new staff, but I can’t give them to you until Sunday, the latest.”

Rosie flips her hand. “I want you to bring your weapons when you do.”

He stops short. “Whatever for?”

“I have a feeling. I may have left the business, but I rather like you alive. I insist you bring them when you deliver those measurements. Will it be the sturdier stuff this time?”

“... Yes. I again thank you for taking the time, Rosie, knowing your schedule.”

“You’re the only _pup_ I could never refuse, Alastor.” She giggles, Alastor’s chuckles joining. This woman has rare moments of affection, and Alastor is often caught off guard when they show. “Madame Rosie, if you would be so kind, please don’t spread it around for Ms. Killjoy of Charlotte, if she happens to overhear.”

She purses her lips, confused. “Katie _Kilgore,_ you mean?” 

Alastor waves a hand, swatting away the correction. “Whatever it may be. Just see to it.”

“I’m afraid that will be impossible.” She scoffs, procuring a _Deck of Luckies_ from her satin purse _._ On que, Alastor returns to pull out his zippo, the royal family crest engraved into the silver when he zips it alight. Rosie’s giggle is a mockery. She pulls out her cigarette holder, knowing his gentlemanly habit demands he accommodates a fellow smoker. Rosie places the _gasper_ into the flame, pausing for a few tokes.

“Thank you.” She exhales, polite to tilt her face to the ceiling, the stick dangling between her fingers. “Your appearance is causing a stir, and I’m not necessarily speaking about your ‘fans’. It’ll be only a matter of time before they start getting curious about _her.”_ She gestures accusingly to the open hallway, where Charlotte waits. 

He tucks away the zippo, sighing when he straightens his tuxedo. “Sooner or later, all the world will have to learn who she is, Madame. Better she does it with a bang than by that ol’ _nudniks_ of a reporter _,_ don’t you think?”

“So, you _are_ planning on exposing her.” Rosie’s piercing stare fills with noxious delectation, her head tilting nobly. Alastor remains quiet, only meeting her stare. There is an understanding between people such as they, if they qualify as ‘people’ to others. Who look down upon the boring masses like mindless insects, thoughtless cattle _pulling a Daniel Boone_ with every graze of grass before they scoop up the cud. But now, He’s curious of this new smile on her face, like she looks upon him as something of a comedic display, a joke she has no intention to share. “But I do suppose I’ve interrupted your fun long enough, Radio Demon...”

She turns, lounging into the alcove when the striking lethality returns into her cold stare. Even silent, the tilt of her head can inspire winter’s return against the rising tide of spring’s growing flora. Cold and keen and calculative _._ She is a snake, her hands floating to her satin purse, fingers gleaming their venomous scales as she presses the clasp closed. She is a wisp of smoke, ever entrancing as the ballad of silence dances in the _gasper’s_ sigh. 

Alastor chuckles. He saw into her purse, a handle encrusted in diamonds poked from its seam. The beauty only seems to falsify its real purpose, and Alastor is assured again she never fully lays the past to rest.

She’s _packing heat._

A good thing. Habits die hard, after all, and he hasn’t found a weapons dealer he trusts as much as Rosie.

He turns again when calls after him. “Take heed. You know when I am present, _she_ is not far behind. Enjoy your evening with your new plaything.”

He sneers. “ _Bonsoir, Madame.”_

_________________________________

They approach the podium where a _smarty_ collects ballots, contestants passing along their names and songs. Charlotte takes the time to look around her. There are eyes following them, gaping. There is even a shift of expression on _Buster Keaton’s_ normally stoic face, and she feels she should have taken a photograph, but then she hears the murmurs. 

“That’s Alastor Griffiths!”

“The Radio Demon?”

 _Radio Demon?_ A strange name, but it tickles the back of her mind, like she heard it before. So many people mutter, she feels like she is the one girl at school who was not told the secret the whole academy knows. 

“Alastor.”

“Hm?” He pauses, now in the relatively short line of dance partners.

“I just overheard some people talking. Calling you the ‘Radio Demon’?”

Alastor’s grin grows wide. He is truly exuberant with excitement, yet he only shakes his head in refusal, something Charlotte only grows all the more impatient.

“You’re acting awfully _hinky!_ Please, I don’t like this secrecy!”

“Well, it’s not quite a secret, darling.”

“What…?”

“I just never told you.”

“Told me what?” She huffs.

He raises a hand, calming the onslaught of questions undoubtedly built on her tongue. “Alright, hold on. I’ll tell now _if_ you’ve been keeping up with the papers.”

She frowns, something Alastor cannot help but find so adorable. “… My mind’s been elsewhere to really consider the papers lately, Alastor.”

He can’t hold it against her when on the same night as his rediscovery, the pandemic made its way into the royal household. _No matter…_ He grins, his mind whirring. “Then in due time, my dear! We have a song to submit!”

He gestures to the podium, now the next in line, the flapper’s eye makeup so heavy, she more represents a clown than a woman. 

Charlotte gulps.

_________________________________

  
  


“ _Tom Mix_ and _Bessie Love_ , you’re up!”

The two contestants jump to their feet, walking arm in arm to the entrance leading to the dance floor outside. They await backstage, where Alastor leans against a theater vanity with his head down in thought. Charlotte sits next to him quietly, fiddling with her fingers when she comes to her feet, jerking Alastor out of his trance when he hears her frantic pacing.

“Something on your mind, dear?”

“I just… don’t know about this.”

He watches her walking to and fro, completely at ease while she bites her nails. She’s just _balled up_ , rubbing her arms as if to warm herself from a chill. A large card of the number ‘8’ hangs on her shoulder strap, fluttering as she paces. Their ears fill with the scream of trumpets and trombones of a wild _whangdoodle,_ and she bites her lips.

“Doubting yourself again?” He asks, bemused.

She turns on her heel sharply. “No! I can dance! I just... don’t like being left in the dark.”

“Meaning...?”

She looks up, eyes catching the light, and Alastor has to pause at the strange new plea in her stance. The way the mirror’s lights trace the figure before him is an absolute marvel. Her arms cradle her chest as her lashes flutter sadly, her waif chassis in its diamond glory caressed in the glorious blemish of the ruby’s reds, hindering the purity draped across her form. She looks so vulnerable, he _must_ acknowledge.

“Alastor… _What’s the grift_?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I’m feeling put out here. Everyone knows you, and I’m the only one who seems to be oblivious as to how you’re so _made_. I mean, I know you’re charismatic and you light up a room everywhere you go, but this goes beyond the popular kid at school or even the butler to the king!”

He tilts his head, amused. “Your point?

“What are you not telling me?”

“It’s a surprise.” 

Once again, her frown is so very delectable. Perhaps, he'll be willing to offer one hint. So, he opens his arms, and shrugs. “It’s an awfully long story, dear Charlotte. I’d rather just show you than spend hours giving you a background.”

“Background on what?” She approaches, absorbing him into her curious eyes. 

He crosses his ankles alongside his arms as the vanity’s lights warm to his back. He looks around him to the dimly lit props and lights, decrepit memories resurfacing when the specters of two young actors is seen in the empty corner near the levers. He can hear their shouts, imagine the impressions tossed between the other in a bout of theatrical wits. A whimsical tilt changes his grin, an old haunt whispering on his shoulder. 

“Myself, _ma chere_. You said yourself you wanted to know more about who I was.” He pushes himself to his feet, clasping his hands behind him when he approaches her, closing the distance until she must crane her neck to look upon him. “It would _faaar_ too boring to talk about it.”

Charlotte frowns, about to ask more when they hear the crowd booing, more than likely toward the dancers before them. 

“Like our dear predecessors.”

“Tough crowd.” He hears it. The nerves cracking through her voice. That won’t do at all.

“Now, now. Didn’t we say we are on our way to show Hollywood you are someone not to be trifled with?” He looks down, blithely lifting his brow when he drops low, inches from her face when she forces herself back from him. 

She chuckles, raising her hands to push him back when she pauses. He’s pleased to see her react more quickly to his preferences, but she needn’t worry about his distaste for touch right now. 

The conflict across her faces forces him to act, his hands gently taking her empty ones. Much like a child given the trust of her parent’s most prized trinket, the way she lights up does something of a twist in his stomach. It’s strange to him, the difference of being gone and then returning. When he saw her dressed in her riding gear, he felt a wave of ecstasy. Seeing her dressed, hair curled into ringlets and singing to him on the false French Opera House stage, he was entranced. And he spoke her name, without any real idea of what he wanted to say when all he could think about was the perfume lingering on her throat.

He clears his throat, again pushing aside these silly thoughts. And the unnerving thump he feels in his chest by the way she looks up, heedful of what he means to say. 

The thing is he outright forgot what he was going to say!

 _Curious…_ “Um… _Ahem!”_ He drops her hands then, shaking his head, but he can’t shake off when a new voice enters his mind. A voice that grits like sandpaper. King Lucifer’s voice, and the orders he gave him on their little ‘trip’. 

**_I want you to expose her, Alastor._ **

_He rolls a glass of G and T in hand, staring into the fireplace of the suite they purchased in the swankiest hotel in Hollywood. His eyes never shifted from the fire, as though he challenged the blinding flames._

**_Make those bastards weed themselves out once they know who she is. Announce it, scream it, hire Hollywood's most renowned showgirls and make a spectacle. Only that she is seen. That she captures their fancy, and their greedy little hearts._ **

_Alastor is busy replacing the bullets in each slot of his revolver, sitting on the bed as the shells are arranged on the wheeled table where they left a half-eaten meal from room service. He’s wrapped in a robe, his hair freshly dried from a hot shower. In the fire, the clothes he wore burn to ashes, losing all traces of blood and fabric. He smiles to himself, spinning the chamber before he snaps it into place. That little seed he planted, his original plan... he gave it to the king, and the king took the bate so easily. It's all falling into place._

**_Then bump them off, one by one. I know you’ll relish it. Just let them come. I don’t care if they start getting wise. Just let them come… And if she dies…_ **

His smile grows tense when he turns, walking toward the curtains where the band plays

“Alastor?” 

He does not answer for some time, hand already parting the curtains to take a peek outside toward the crowds. He cannot see them, but knows they're out there. He _knows_ they sit above, safe in their private rooms looking down at the stage. 

The mafioso. Don Henroin, and this so-called ‘V’ _,_ and whoever else in their little _posse._

**You had better pull the trigger on yourself because I will make you suffer until you die screaming.**

“Alastor?” 

Alastor looks down, surprised to see Charlotte had come to his side. Once again, her hand hovers, wishing to touch him. A wordless permission. He does not take her hand this time, nor does he pull away. Instead, he smiles wider, assuring her with a nod.

“Go out without me.”

“What?!”

“It’s _Darb,_ Princess! _”_ He places a hand on her head, patting her head in a rather patronizing exit. “I just have something planned that’s going to need me on stage. Just follow the coordinator outside, and you’ll see what I have in store! And remember!”

He presses his finger under her chin, forgetting his concerns when their eyes meet. 

“Keep that chin up!”

“Charlotte Magne and Alastor Griffiths?”

_________________________________

Charlotte walks alone, doing as she was told, her head high, and her stride confident. The spotlight flashes, and she’s blinded for a second before forcing a winning smile and quickly grasps for her best pose. Arms stretch out as she struts, recollecting her teachers and maestros words about ‘fake it till you make it’. Still, in the back of her mind, she’s nerve wracked Alastor is not here to guide her along. 

_Just what are you planning?_

“Laaaadies and gentleman!”

She looks back, but she can’t see the stage past the spotlight’s circlet! _Alastor?!_ It **is** Alastor’s voice, booming and intense with excitement! _Why are_ **_you_ ** _announcing us?!_

“Introducing your dancers! Straight from Los Angeles, California and fresh from the Big Apple, **Princess Charlotte** **Adeline Mary-Beth Olivia** **Magne!** ”

Applause roars through the crowd, and she hears the gasps of shock! 

“ _Princess?!”_

“She’s a princess?!”

“There’s no way! A princess!”

 _Chin up! Chin up!_ She is so very glad she cannot see their faces, fighting the desire to run and hide, until her smile hurts her face! Alastor did say her father released the strict rule, but he could have discussed it with her first! She isn’t truly sure she _wants_ to be known! 

_It’s too late now! Just go with it!_ She drags a foot behind the other and curties to the crowd, another round of applause responding. She can hear the clicks and feel the flashes. Cameras. Paparazzi. Her heart begins to thrum, and her legs begin to shake, but she keeps her chin high with every breath.

Drums start to roll, and two more spotlights being to traverse the cafe, passing by her in a dizzying spin. She feels like she is surrounded by two searching eyes, circling her like vultures! Murmurs buzz around the room, then she hears the following lines.

“And! From the bayous of Nawlins, Louisiana, back from the shadows of a ten-year- anonymity! Your favorite host with the most! The one! The only! Radio Demon of The Radio Demon’s Voodoo House!!”

She gapes when the crowds begins to scream! _The Radio Demon’s_ **_Voodoo House!?_ ** _Wait!! I_ **_do_ ** _know that name!!_ Unable to hold the facade, she turns to the stage, purely shocked! _But he couldn’t be!!_ That would mean his voice is the very voice once frightening to her as a child! A radiohost whom she called a _monster_ in her ten-year-old mind!

Yet her confirmation strikes its last sign, when the spotlight flies to the stage! Standing there, on the top of a piano, is Alastor, his hand wrapped around a microphone plucked from its stand! And out from his throat comes a bellowing greeting that thrums through her chest like a battle cry! It’s the same shout she heard on the radio! The one voice that propelled her little feet into her room so she would bury her face in her pillows and hide!! But now, instead of fear, she is enamored by the confidence oozing through the cafe. 

“ _Good mooooornniiiiiiiiiinnnnnng,_ ** _Hollywood!!_** _It’s your very own!! Alastor Gustaaave_ ** _Griffiths!!_** _About to perform for you with my lovely dance partner, Princess Charlotte,”_ He gestures dramatically to her, and she can’t help the disbelieving laughter bubbling through her, “ _to a favorite of mine, ‘Hey Pachuco’_ ** _!!”_** He jabs a finger behind him to the drums, shouting above the cheering crowd. “Hit it **!”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've learned to just let the story go and stop trying to get to the parts I want to get to already!! HERE ARE SOME AMAZING ARTISTS WHO HAVE MADE FANART TO THIS AS WELL AS TO MY COMIC, ACT 3, which is a mini-romcom which includes the three Alastors from this work, Smiling Man, and The Taxidermist!!! You can follow me on Twitter and see this comic on @Wifeofthesoules!
> 
> Check out these artists!
> 
> https://twitter.com/Aguirrez9/status/1295947241803231233?s=20
> 
> https://twitter.com/Khajeel3/status/1296302902542249986?s=20
> 
> https://twitter.com/Aguirrez9/status/1297437600605540354?s=20
> 
> Bunny- term of endearment to a lost girl, disoriented
> 
> Lollygagging- making out
> 
> Deck of Luckies- Box of cigerattes
> 
> Packing heat- holding a gun
> 
> Ish kabibble- ‘it’s fine’
> 
> bright young thing- Socialite
> 
> Smarty- Flapper
> 
> Now you’re on the trolley,-- Now you’ve got it
> 
> Spill!- Talk
> 
> Given the third (give me the third)- interrogate
> 
> flat tire- Dumb girl
> 
> Brooksy- classy dresser
> 
> Jive- unpleasant talk
> 
> Lather- tantrum
> 
> Insured- engaged
> 
> Tell it to Sweeney- tell it to someone who will believe
> 
> Made- recognized
> 
> Balled up- confused
> 
> G and T- Gin and tonic
> 
> What’s the grift?- what are you trying to pull
> 
> Having the curse on someone- Wanting to see someone killed
> 
> Lug- dumb man
> 
> Razzing- teasing
> 
> Hinky- suspicious
> 
> Breeze off- hurry
> 
> Proskirt: prostitute 
> 
> pulling a Daniel Boone- upchuck
> 
> Glad-rags: beautiful clothes
> 
> Tom Mix: was an American film actor and the star of many early Western movies between 1909 and 1935. Mix appeared in 291 films, all but nine of which were silent movies. He was Hollywood's first Western star and helped define the genre as it emerged in the early days of the cinema.[1]
> 
> Bessie Love: was an American-British actress who achieved prominence playing innocent, young girls and wholesome leading ladies in silent and early sound films.[7]


	14. VooDoo Haus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Orleans, New Orleans
> 
> Hudu, Voodoo, gators, and lovers
> 
> New Orleans, New Orleans
> 
> Hatchets, and bodies, and a radio host's cover!

_Good Morniiiiing, Hollywood!_

Children were known to run from the sound of his voice, and she was no different. When she heard the bellowing greeting, she knew to run into her bedroom, escaped under her blankets. Mother would enter, sweet words comforting her ear while her father was howling at the stories on the radio. Her little mind couldn’t process why he would laugh at such awful stories about death and demons, of shadows creeping the walls like spiders. Ever since the first time, she refused to remain in the same room as that radio. Mother would carry her to her room, singing into her ear the softest lullaby, the most beautiful song exclusive to her and no one else.

She would forget the horrible monster on the radio when Lilith’s voice cradled her into the sweetest of slumbers. She escaped to her dreams full of rainbows and laughter. 

Soon, the monster her ten-year-old mind once shunned became a forgotten childhood fear in her twelve-year-old mind, when she learned the power of whispering metals and humming electricity; yet, she still had no desire to listen, even when her father dramatically begged, pout and all. There are only a few things she could recall for the few times she had, and only mere glimpses, since she always walked away from the greeting howl shaking the room. She escaped to the garden, rolled her eyes when her father shouted with the disembodied radio host. One day, the strange radio host stopped performing altogether, and she was relieved at her father’s expense to never again hear that appalling show. 

One week later, Alastor came to work for them. 

The howl reawakens a latent memory, the exact words he used to scream to make his presence known!

_Good morniiiiiiiing, Nawlins!!!_

Nawlins. New Orleans. She never remembered the host’s full name. She only heard ‘Al’ while she walked away, far enough to hear ‘Ala…..’ before the door shut behind her. A faceless man with a cackling voice named Al, who gave sentience to the shadows and a reason for the creak on the other side of the house. Alastor had a way of speaking, of storytelling, of attracting the attention of hundreds when he speaks. 

_Can it be why it was so natural to call him ‘Al’?_

Now, she looks upon him in breathless wonder, her faceless boogeyman complete with name, face and form! The voice once feared, she listens with adoration! The shout stirs her heart to gallop, and her knees slacken under the charisma of his smile. Once an insignificant memory faded with time, he became someone so important to her in the years he stood by her family’s side! 

Alastor Gustave Griffiths is the **Radio Demon** , the host of _The Radio Demon’s Voodoo House_ . The shock still has not fully melted by the time he leaps from the piano’s top, dances on the steps with a weave to his shoulders, or even when his nimble stride jumps from the top of the stairs to the floor where Charlotte stands. His electrified stare never moves from her, and she _loves_ it! 

She stares on, watching as he charges, bounding with a tiger’s prowess, yet she does not flee from the precision in which he has his sights on her. He flings to his knees, sliding across the floor until he stops before her with a leap to his feet.

Arms snag around her, their bodies pressed tight into a union of charged passion, her gasp warming his nose when he dips her, a familiar intensity swarming between them when his smiling face stops inches from her nose.

She doesn’t realize until she’s lowered, his eyes waggling when he whispers against her cheek.

“Hey, kitten...”

And she’s gone in the swoon of the song!

Saxophones scream in a unified holler when she snaps upright, his arm leading her in a fit of spins and sways at breakneck speed. Trumpets follow, another wail throwing her into his arms and sweeping the floor in floating steps. She feels the guidance of his wrist and leads of his fingers, each signal obeyed with each press on her shoulder blades and back! She’s released, her arm sliding under his palm until he snatches her hand and yanks her back into his body in the wild rhythm. A rhythm so very him _!_

An absolute wild card!

He carries her, her waist surrounded by a single arm when she takes flight, both spinning like a top when he spins her out and releases her completely! She catches herself in a near stumble mid-spin, his form half-hidden in the veil of her messy golden locks, his arms high at the growing applause. He rushes her again, and her fearlessness astounds her when he pulls her to himself again by the next screech of saxophones! 

The cafe cheers! She ducks under his arm, then he ducks under hers, once again connecting their hands for a weaving bob back and forth! Her face hurts from the gales of laughter when she spins out again and returns, her back to his chest. His smile is just as dazzling as the first time she saw it, and her confidence spikes when she bends, shaking her hips when she weaves back up. She’s pleased to see his eyes widen, and they almost lose count by the singer’s entrance!

**Hey! Pachuco!**

**Hey!**

**Summer '43!**

**Hey!**

**the man's gunnin' for me!**

The energy is high, and she’s pulled higher! His hands tight to her waist, her arms rise to the ceiling as she kicks out again. Such a glorious rush, like she flies on the bow of a ship, and her faithful vessel carries her across the roiling seas!

**Hey!**

**And blue and white mean war tonight**

**Hey!**

**They say damn my pride**

**(Hey!) And all the other cats livin' down east side**

**Hey!**

**Or maybe just my plan's too wide**

He is both the storm and the vessel, chaos and order. He both endangers her, and protects her. In his arms, she gives him the power to her life when he carries her again, this time sweeping her off of her feet. 

“Trust me, darling!”

Without a moment to respond, he tosses her into a somersault and catches her, drops her legs but holds tight at the hip, her feeting flying above the dance floor! His laughter is contagious, and her trust replaces amazement. In this storm of movements, she can see his confidence. He can move her without misstep, rush without a wane to his strength! She’s enamored by this new man whose voice she once feared. All this time, how is it she never knew?

_Why did he never tell me?_

Nothing adds up. Why would a radio host — an undeniably popular one — trade his fame to become a butler? What on earth would have forced him into such a drastic difference of occupation?

On the floor, she spins out again, then rolls back, and this time, he stoops again and flips her upside-down! The blare of the music deafen and the searching lights blind, yet her heart is calm. Completely at his mercy, he continues to take her higher, until she’s carried with ease above his head!

She sees the world spinning around her once, then twice, and on the third, he pulls her down, twisting her across his waist, back, until she pops through his legs, dizzily set on her knees while he holds her arm up

_How on earth is this man so strong!?_

**(Hey!) Hmmm... Marie (Hey!)**

**Hey!**

**You better grab my jack and zip gun for me!**

**(Hey!)And I'll face no shame (hey!)**

**'Cause (Hey!) tonight's the night I die for our name!**

It’s an answer she’s not to learn on this dance floor as she’s pulled her to her feet. The confusion rests when she looks into his eyes again, honey-drop brilliance resting her thoughts. 

_Later._

For now, while the masquerade still persists, she will hold this moment, this dream. In dreams, she can be anyone. This time, she’ll give him something to remember her by. Not the timid princess, nor the heartbroken daughter. He ducks under her arm again, and this time, _she_ releases. She spins on one toe, a ballerina for one instant, and a tigress the next when her foot stomps down, facing him with a coy smirk. She sees his surprise, the interest in his eyes, and she’s encouraged. She knows this song well enough. And if he thinks she’ll let him get away with surprising her, she’ll return the favor.

She dances toward the stage, leaping up the steps as she holds tight to her dress. The singer looks surprised to see her on stage. She points to the microphone, cutely shrugging a shoulder in bold permission. The singer, with a laugh, steps back, gesturing to the audience for a round of applause when she takes the microphone. Her sights never move from Alastor’s, who stands snapping his finger without missing one beat. He wants her confidence! She’ll give him a _bearcat!_ So, with a deep breath, she opens her mouth and belts!

**Well, I'd like to be swingin'**

**Dancin' and swingin'**

**Just havin' a time!**

A smooth toll of sensual passion conjoins with saxophones strain, stunning the audience by the clear expertise by the belle. And her dear dance partner stands stunned, pursing his lips in amazement. She rolls her shoulder, a strap falling one way when she takes the microphone, fingers tracing the base when she falls into a new rush in the next verse.

**Free to do whatever**

**Now more than ever**

She watches him, weaving and swaying, never losing rhythm in his feet. Eyes meet, again in the wild chaos of trumpets, drums, and saxophones; claps, cheers, and flashing cameras. Calm descends upon her, yet, when she looks to him. Undaunted by the cheers, unmovable to the praises and deafening instruments. She’s calm, looking into his eyes from above. He reaches out to her. With a swelling heart, she belts the last verse, an ardency piercing through the core of each soul who stands bewitched to her voice. A voice which catches the stirring of a black, twisted soul who sees no redemption in his future. Her voice is a crystal creek to the thirsty, a shade to those scorched by the sun.

**I've gotta stick with that gang of mine!**

In unison, cheers and instruments collide, and she rushes to him, this time honing him in _her_ sights. She jumps from the edge, and falls,, knowing as she descends, he will be there to catch her!

_____________________________________________

Rosie watches the display, intrigued when Alastor catches the young _skirt_. When she had Charlotte wait in the alcove, the young _bunny_ was so compliant, Rosie was quick to judge her as a _milquetoast_ who took comfort in her _mazuma_ and _glad rags_. Not at all the type Alastor would be fascinated by _._ Now, the little princess shows to be a real _hopper,_ especially keeping up with the _Oliver Twist_ of a former radio host. She hasn’t seen that kind of _moxie_ since–

Hearing the door open to one of the private suites, She looks to the floor above her, grin devious when she sees a familiar form descending the steps with a look of shock at the contestants. Following, a portly older gentleman, and a tall colored man with a garish fur coat. 

“Something the matter?” Rosie hears the gentleman croak, accent marinated in Italian roots.

The figure says nothing for some time, and Rosie looks away, just in case she is caught spying. 

“Can we get back to business, _doll?_ I have a plane to catch.”

The designer nurses her _fag,_ listening intently above her. A shuffle of shoes, and the door closes, and Rosie can imagine whatever meeting was interrupted now resumes. She chuckles, exhaling a ribbon of smoke. Turns out her hunch might be correct. She turns back to her driver, waving her gloved fingers. 

“Have the _breezer_ ready, Fred. I’d like to begin on some projects promptly.”

_____________________________________________

Alastor had been completely distracted by the newfound confidence blossoming through her! 

In his arms, she flies like a bird, her trust in him daring the limits with every twist of the hand. Even though she’s been the one giving him every opportunity to lead, the confidence stirs him to test the limits, and each limit, he’s been pleased with the extent of faith in him! She allows him freedom! The butler’s uniform is stuffy, and the plans he makes need a perfect sequence of circumstances. Being here tonight is part of those circumstances, as to present himself as an obstacle to his enemies, but here he is, taking the time to participate in a contest he had no intention of entering, and he didn’t expect he would be so challenged in her quick step!

Heavens, she truly has become something of a marvel!

As he spins her one more time, he whispers in her ear, testing one more thing he’s been quite curious about. She laughs! He lifts her by the waist, dress flying above her thighs when she leaps in his arms. He places her beside him. The music pauses.

Saxophones _scream_ as legs kick out! Their next movement is like a practiced choreography, and the crowd roars!

The Charleston, performed perfectly by the unified duo, yet neither have actually performed it together until now! Charlotte laughs gaily, infecting him with its gaiety! A third time, he sweeps his arm under her legs, and he takes her to space again, twisting around his back before he dips her for the final count. His hand cups the back of her head, noses inches apart. 

Just like before...

The music blurs, applause dims. Her neck warm under his embrace, sweat and salt on his tongue in a single inhale. He feels her panting, and realizes his own heavy breaths! Beads dew his forehead!

_She actually made me break a sweat!_

He barely feels her hand glide across his shoulder, her fingers warm on his cheek. His breaths stop. Her thumb stops on the silk of his dry lips, parted under her exploration. 

_What is she…?_ Then he sees her eyes panic, fingers pulling away! 

“Alastor, I’m–” But he snatches it back. Holds firmly to her palm, yet as equally gentle. Whatever she did just then, he’s suddenly too aware as to how much he wants to feel her hands again. “Alastor…?”

Her face dews with sweat, aglow in their pearlescence. Her breaths slow, and he can smell the linger of her cappuccino on her rose-petal lips, beckoning him closer. Her eyes, like twin onyx gems, twinges his mind to reach her. 

She's a breath away. A kiss away.

 **“** **_Alastor!?”_ **

_Ka-CHA!! Ka-CHA!_

Like a broken spell, the camera lights reawaken him from his thoughts, and he sees then their surroundings are blocked off by a swarm of _newshounds!_ Without asking permission of the princess, he pulls her upright and drapes his coat over her, pushing her into his chest. 

He attempts to go backstage, until he sees two familiar bodyguards fighting off the vultures, and a short young woman standing before him, her face annoyed. It’s then Alastor realizes just who called him, and she also is kind enough to send her bodyguards to their rescue as they return to the quieter backstage.

He has to laugh. 

When Rosie is around, then her main star whom she dresses — after Lillith — is _never_ far behind.

“Thank you, Mimzy.”

_____________________________________________

  
  


Charlotte untucks her head from under the coat, glad to see they now are backstage, but sees an awfully recognizable figure glaring at her.

“Quite the number there, Alastor. Who’s the _broad_?”

A bob of bright yellow hair decorates in rubies and a lone, pink feather. Her eyes are a striking pair of blue, narrowed in thick lashes, and her red lips, twisted into a sneer. For a moment, Charlotte wants to hide herself again, mortified by the absolute impossibility she could have received the disapproval of _Mimzy Lenore Cardinal!?_

“Weren’t you listening to the announcements, _ma chere?”_ Alastor mocks. 

“I was in the middle of a meeting in one of the private suites, if you must know. I didn’t know you would be a participant for tonight’s contest.”

“Nor did I know you would be a customer for tonight.”

Charlotte looks between them, not surprised they know the other, but the extent seems to be more…vicious?

Alastor clears his throat, gesturing to Charlotte. "Mrs. Cardinal, this is a colleague of mine."

Awkwardly, she steps away from Alastor to give Mimzy a curtsey. “How do you do? My name is Charlotte Magne.”

“ _Princess_ Charlotte Magne.” Alastor corrects.

She bites back a scold, nodding shyly to Mimzy.

Mimzy, on the other hand, frowns deeper before her eyes widen. “You’re _Lillith’s_ kid?”

“...Yes, ma’am.” 

“...You’re… much taller than I would have expected.”

“...Thank you?”

“Sorry for your loss.” Though she does not sound sad at all. If anything, Charlotte feels the indifference in her body language as well as hears it. No one is obligated to like her mother, but the blazé reaction bothers her. “How do you and Alastor know each other?” 

“Through my family…” Charlotte finds herself unsure she wants to reveal he works for them, and Alastor’s silence leaves her to improvise, unaware Alastor looks at the display with some amusement. “I've known him since I was very young.”

“ _I_ don’t recognize you, and I’ve known him for more than a few years.”

“That’s enough now, _cherie.”_ Alastor steps beside Charlotte, relieving her when his hand falls on her shoulder. “You needn’t get yourselves into a _tizzy_ over who’s known me the longest. Charlotte here has shown herself to be the _cat’s meow,_ and so whether or not she’s known me longer makes her no less of a _hoot_!”

Mimzy grimaces, her _fag_ bobbing between her fingers. “So you’ve made known to all of Hollywood.”

Charlotte frowns, tired of Mimzy’s rudeness. Alastor softly squeezes her shoulder. She must have tensed, urging him to smooth over annoyance. She looks over to him, and they exchange a smile of confidence, her gratefulness bare. 

“ _And how_! I don’t think I’ve had to dance that hard since–”

“Since _me!”_

Charlotte turns to her, wordlessly shocked.

Alastor’s smile remains amicable. “Yes. I’ll admit that.”

“Did Alastor ever tell you he was _insured_ once, Charlotte dear?”

“No, but considering it no longer stands, and you married since then, there is no reason to bring it up, _Mrs. Cardinal…”_ Alastor’s voice remains leveled. _Alarmingly calm._

 _Grungy, much?_ Charlotte blinks. “Beg your pardon?”

Mimzy says nothing more, facing away with a quiet sneer. Alastor’s tone expressed its warning, and he knows she’s smart enough to keep that tongue of hers still if she knows what’s good for her. Charlotte, on the other hand, finds herself in the middle of an old drama, and almost ignored by _both_ parties. Not a very good feeling, and one she is too familiar.

“Excuse me, but I think it’s time we headed home, Alastor.” This is not how she wants to enjoy the evening, and she will _not_ be made to stand on the sidelines. 

Mimzy’s grin is tight. “Oh, but if you leave now, you won’t hear the announcements of who won. Surely, you’d want to know.”

“...I think I’m ready to _scram,_ to be frank. I did what I wanted to do. To prove to Alastor that I could do the Charleston now.”

Alastor looks at her, proud. “And you’ve proven you went from _heeler_ to _Hoofer!_ That school really did make a diamond out of you! _”_

“And you still have a _a few screws loose_ _!”_

“You wound me!” They share a laugh, now Mimzy left out of a joke. 

_They really_ **_do_ ** _know each other!_ She grits her teeth. _But how well?_

Judging from the proximity of their faces on the dance floor, she can take a wild guess at _how well_ they know each other. Their silence, their smiles. All of it made her scream out his name without thinking before the paparazzi pounced them! She knows what she saw. She’s never seen Alastor look at another woman the way he looks at this skinny _bim._ Not even _her._ She was his _fiance,_ dammit! 

“The prize will go to someone else. Are you sure you two won’t stay for a drink?” 

“I’ve learned my lesson about sharing a drink with you.” She irks. “Charlotte, darling, do me a favor, and give us some privacy, please? There’s something we need to discuss, but I won’t be long.” 

Respectfully, Charlotte nods, but oh, Mimzy sees the way her eyes linger on Alastor. 

_Ha! That man doesn’t have the ability to love anyone! Keep hoping,_ **_bitch…_**

But with the way he looks back, with a soft gaze and a natural smile, Mimzy cannot rely on her past experiences from this new sight. She’s _never_ seen this of the sociopathic radio host. 

“Something you wanted to discuss with me, _mon amour?”_

Alastor’s smile grows maliciously. “Don’t," He emphasizes, "ever speak of our previous engagement to the princess, if you’ll be so kind.”

“Why? Embarrassed?” She sneers, uncaring of his ruthlessness. “She’s bound to find out about the sort of man you are!”

“You don’t know me as much as you say, my dear. I can be _so_ much worse, and you would be wise to _pipe down_. If more important matters hadn’t come to my attention at the time you had decided to pull off that little stunt–”

“Stop bringing that up!”

“–you would have found out for yourself.”

Her lips twist. “What, were you gonna _bump me off?”_

Alastor avoids the bait, his hand diving into his vest. “What I need to discuss with you is this little _mop.”_

Mimzy grimaces but looks at what he presents. A plastic bag, and within it, a scarlet silk handkerchief. “What about it?”

He turns it around, and she sees the little white bird stitching. Her face remains stoic. “That’s an exclusive handkerchief to any who wants in at the BOP. My club, the Birds of Paradise. I give them to anyone who is someone. Actors, singers, even mobsters, if they got the _dough_.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve already learned that much. But this one has an interesting story attached to it, _Cheri.”_

“What are _you_ doing with it? You never came around to see me to receive one.”

“It belonged to the queen, and it was the last thing she received a few days before her death. You’re aware as to how she died, correct?”

Mimzy’s eyes flicker. “...Influenza.” She looks down to the handkerchief. “Like my husband.”

“Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?” 

Furious, eyes flash! “You think _I’m_ the one who got her sick!?” she snaps, lowering her voice.

“No, no, my dear, not you. You’re too much of a _Piker_ to do something like that yourself. However it was an open secret in all of Hollywood that you had quite the grudge toward Queen Lillith. Nooo, in fact, the man who gave this to the queen had been sent in your stead to her rehearsal one day. Do you know what happened to him?”

Insulted, her hand tightens around her _lip stick._ “This is low, even for _you_ to think I would do something like that!”

“Mimzy, my dear…” He lowers himself, almost bending his knees to level himself to her stature. “Do you _want_ to know what _happened_ to him? To this particular delivery man who gave the queen this mop? A mop, mind you, is the only way to enter _your_ club, when it is a well-known fact by how much you detested her?”

She hisses. “I _did_ detest her, but I didn’t ask her to be taken to the _Big Sleep._ If anything, that handkerchief was sent to her as a peace offering! _”_

“Strange…because the individual who gave this to her was sick as well. And he is now _dead.”_

Mimzy stops, her throat caught under a phantom’s strangulation, tightening the longer she looks into his eyes. 

“But not by the way of the sickness, _Cherie._ When I went to Hollywood these past three days, I called each individual who attended the rehearsals with the queen. A very meager group, mind you. Did you know only nine people have the means to create a symphony when it comes to the _picture show?_ He was among them, and what do you know? He was only beginning to recover from illness. Quite the resilient lad! _”_

“You didn’t…You’re crazy, Alastor, but you’re not **that** crazy.”

“I told you: ‘You don’t know me as well as you think’. I killed him, Mrs. Cardinal. In front of all of those who were involved in the production as a warning.”

“You’re lying… I would have… found out… They would have told me.” _He’s not a killer. He doesn’t_ **_act_ ** _like a killer. I’ve been with him! He’s not a killer!_

“It’s amazing what a threat from the king and a bag of _berries_ can do, my dear. They were told if any word were to trickle out of their _traps,_ they would be found and _bumped off._ ”

“ _King…?”_

“You’ll find out soon enough, my dear. But if you can contact ‘V’… _”_ Mimzy starts, “Please, let him know that the games have begun. And we’ll be awaiting the calvary at the King’s Forest. Oh, I’ve learned a great deal these last few days, Mimzy. Maybe you did not kill the queen, but Mr. Cardinal’s _goons_ are quite loyal to the mafia, even messing with an innocent gift such as a peace offering when you would often whisper to yourself ‘I hope she gets sick and rot _’_.”

Mimzy shakes, her breaths quick and short when she begins to stumble back. _How–?! How does he–?!_ “I… I never meant them to--” 

“How disappointing when I learned that you’ve become just another _Moll,_ my dear.” He returns the packeted handkerchief into his vest, smoothing the material down. “Mr. Cardinal’s previous debts to the mafia are only the tip of the iceberg of what I’ve learned. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date to resume.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my last two weeks have been full of traveling and weddings and self-reflection and drawings. I apologize for the chapter's delay, but there was a lot going on! Thank you to @Pame and @Aguirrez for your fanart and THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE SUPPORT! Please comment if you enjoy the story! It does help me know people actually do like this! This is my baby, and I'll be making more act 3 with @MuseVlt and @Angelus19, the writers of Smiling Man and The Taxidermist!
> 
> 1920s terms! 
> 
> Haus- An alcohol brand designed for the way we drink today. Born and bottled in California, Haus is made with things you can pronounce - think chardonnay grapes.
> 
> Bunny- confused, disoriented girl
> 
> milquetoast - a timid person
> 
> glad rags- fancy clothes
> 
> moxie- gumption
> 
> picture show- movie
> 
> Mazuma-money
> 
> berries- money
> 
> Bearcat- fierce woman
> 
> Skirt- girl
> 
> Breezer- lidless car
> 
> Pipe down- be quiet
> 
> newshounds- paparazzi
> 
> Tizzy- ruckus
> 
> Hoot- interest
> 
> Cat’s meow - something great (Beens knees)
> 
> Broad- woman
> 
> Dough- money
> 
> Fag- cigarrette
> 
> Mop- handkerchief
> 
> Scram- to leave
> 
> And how- but of course
> 
> Grungy- envious
> 
> Heeler- poor dancer
> 
> Hoofer- dancer
> 
> Insured- engaged
> 
> bump me off- to kill me
> 
> Piker- Coward
> 
> lipstick- cigarette
> 
> Moll- mobster’s girlfriend/wife


	15. Coffee and Whiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our masks fall apart, 
> 
> The night swallows into day.
> 
> My sins are found,
> 
> As I wish to flee from your sight, away.

Once Molly learned they were allowed to smoke in the lower levels of the manor, she escaped to the servant’s lounge when sleep evaded her. Anthony slept like the dead once he hit the sack, so she was confident she would have her desired privacy here.

Another long drag fails to soothe the nerves, an altercation of the spirit bombarding the faux blonde’s apprehensive heart. Mindless nibbles dull her nails, though it’s been hours since the princess left with that _crackjob_ ! Oh, what she wouldn’t give for the sun to rise so she can find herself a stellar _hen coup_ . She always relaxes under the hands of a beautician, as long as the girl doesn’t mind Molly’s _gumming_. Oh, but what would she chatter about if there is a salon open to her needs?

About how the princess is in love with an _off the tracks_ butler? About how he was the cause of her injury? That awful dungeon? Who has dungeons anymore!? Molly has to pace herself, but the next drag only reminds her desperation for nicotine is doing _zilch_ for her tonight! 

Does the princess know about that psycho’s knick-knacks beneath the manor? 

Molly shakes her head. One trait the mafia could not remove was her ability to believe in honest-to-goodness people. Charlotte’s spirit is now eternally cracked by the loss of her mother, but she doesn’t seem the sort to hold malicious secrets. The poor dear doesn’t seem to know a thing about him! 

She’s so _goofy_ for him, Molly didn’t have the heart to speak up when they left together, but what if that moment of tenderness was the last moment she could have saved her?

 _Did I send her to bite the_ **_big one?_ ** Molly presses the heel of her palms into her eyes. 

She’s had little interaction with him ever since Anthony and she reunited, save for a single request to ‘watch over Princess Charlotte’ as soon as the queen fell ill, but Molly’s luck ended the morning Queen Lillith passed. He and the king were moments from leaving for their trip, her heart lodged into her throat when he called her.

_“We should be back in a few days, and once we do, I’ll have need of your assistance, Ms. Agostino.”_

_She was immediately suspicious of the pleasant grin he had on his face. He proved her wariness right when he lowered his voice, whispering with a jovial lilt with a finger over his lips._

_“Remember: If I come back and I learn you decided to nark about our little contract…” His smirk widened. “I’ll be taking you and Mr. Agostino for a ride!”_

If she hadn’t been subjected to Mr. Griffiths' sick pastime, she would have called his bluff! Nor did that candied sweetness in his voice sound correct in the _left_ tilt of his grin. That smile hides a world of dark secrets she has no desire to reveal. 

She can only imagine what ‘assistance’ he was talking about. She is the don’s daughter, after all! Is he going to ask about the drug cartel? Its ties to the sex trade? Well, the egg’s on his face! If at all, it’s Anthony he’ll need to ask, and she won’t dare expose him to that world again, not when they can finally start fresh! She’d rather go back into those dungeons and rot!

“Molly?” 

Molly jumps to her feet with a gasp! Anthony found her out!!

But there stands Vagatha at the door, flummoxed by Molly’s reaction. She’s dressed in a robe, her feet dressed in a pair of slippers. Her long hair is tied in a bun, her single eye fluttering in surprise.

“Oh…” Molly sighed with relief, pressing a calm hand to her chest. “Heya, sweetpea…”

"Good evening?” she returns warily. “What are you doing?” 

Molly’s fingers fiddle, a guilty expression on her face. “I can’t sleep.”

“Something eating you..?”

She sighs, sitting back down. “Something like that.”

Vagatha enters, walking toward the stove. She contemplates, but whatever questions are on her lips, Molly is thankful she doesn’t press. “I can’t sleep either. Thought a pot of tea would help. Want any?”

“Sure. Could ya add honey and milk to mine?”

“Bit of a sweet tooth, huh?”

“Of course.” She chuckles.

With the shuffle of Vagatha’s slippers the sounds between them, along with a few clinks of tea cups and the water from the faucet, Molly sighs in relief. There’s something distressing about the emptiness of silence, and Vagatha’s unplanned company was like being in a room with the tic of a clock. Being alone with her guilt and paranoia was beginning to put her in a state of panic. 

“You want to talk about it?”

“I’d rather not.”

Vagatha nods, taking the whistling pot from the stove to the waiting cups. Once she adds the milk and honey, she delivers them on a silver tray. Molly extinguishes her _dincher_ and takes up her brew with a nod of gratitude.

“Molly?”

“Hm?” She stares from behind the brim. 

“May I ask you something?”

“W–” She swallows, unnerved. “What might that be, honey?”

“It’s been bothering me for a while now, but…”

Her breath hitches.

“May I ask you what happened earlier? With Princess Charlotte?”

She lays her cup down carefully. Well, she sort of expected such. 

She remembers the way Vaggie stood in tense silence, watching the backs of Mr. Griffiths and Princess Charlotte. Her fists were so tight at her sides, Molly was scared to reach out for her. When she stormed into the opposite hallway, Molly was alone at the door of the princess’s room, racked with guilt. 

“...She asked me to do her makeup and hair.”

“Why did she ask you?”

She tenses. Is she interrogating her? Is this about Mr. Griffiths?

Rubbing a finger to the teacup, she answers as calm as she can. “She said she wanted to go out.”

“...So, you knew she was going to go out with…?”

“No! Vaggie, please let me explain!” Quickly turning in her seat, she takes her shoulder. 

Before Molly could defend herself, she sees the poor girl’s expression. Vagatha’s single eye is crestfallen, her lips ajar. Immediately, all her fears melt away when she sees the hurt shining through her bangs! Molly feels the proverbial punch to the gut for her suspicion she was accusing her of being in _cahoots_ with the whole date!

“...I didn’t know she was going to go out with the butler! If I had known, I wouldn’t have dared! _”_

The chambermaid looks down, her sigh heavy. Oh, Molly feels _awful_ for her! How she _wishes_ she had known!

“...I’m not accusing you of anything, Molly. It’s just that she’s supposed to ask _me_ when she needs her hair done. When she intends to go anywhere, it’s my job to prepare her. I thought she was still miserable about her mother, so when I saw her come out of her room in that _get up,_ I couldn’t believe– Just…” Her hand curls in a fist. “What is she thinking?! Why would she want to go out after what happened? And with _him_ of all people!”

The twin has to keep herself silent, unable to speak when she sees the worried tears hovering on her eye. Her fists curl and uncurl on the table, her chest shaking with uneven breaths. Molly couldn’t dare comfort her when _she_ was the one who encouraged Charlotte. If it was anyone else, Molly would have stood up for her! How complicated! 

“... Do you… know what he’s like?”

“He’s a _creep,_ that’s what he’s like!”

 _So, Vaggie doesn’t know about Mr. Griffiths either._ “Vaggie…” _How can I tell you?_

The twin reaches out, curling a hand over the chambermaid’s, deeply moved by her love for Charlotte. The first thing Molly noticed in this house was how everyone spoke so highly of her. The servants and even Anthony love Princess Charlotte. Even after the moments she was spooked out of her mind, Molly fell in love with her tender spirit and spunk.

Mr. Griffiths even speaks highly of her.

And that’s when she stops and thinks. 

During the few times Mr. Griffiths was around her, Molly was fearful of seeing him from the corner of her eye, but Charlotte’s demeanor was calm. Trusting. Altogether, fearless. In fact, as Molly holds tightly to Vaggie’s hand, she thinks harder about the times she saw them from a distance. 

Specifically, the way Mr. Griffiths softened toward Charlotte.

_“Watch over Princess Charlotte.”_

That was the first thing he ever told her to do ever since her freedom was given back. He never demanded secrets about her family, the drug cartel, or anything else. Anthony made allusions of pushing the two of them in a room so ‘they can _fuck_ already’!

She still doesn’t like it. Not even a little! Everything about him is creepy and cruel! 

However, could she perhaps be wrong to think he would harm the princess? Charlotte sure believes it, especially when she regaled the tale of her rescue from childhood. Mr. Griffiths doesn’t at all seem the heroic sort, but neither did the hitmen in the cartel. Many have wives and children.

_Everyone has a weakness…_

Molly is no real mobster save for relation, but she ran away so she and her brother could have a life separated from that. If her suspicions are right…

She can exploit that. 

Of course, her conscience stabs in retaliation.

She squeezes Vagatha’s hand. “...I wish I could say I trust him for Charlie’s sake, but I think we should do what our girl said and trust her about this one.”

Vagatha’s chocolate brow snaps up. “‘Trust her?’ Molly, you don’t know what you’re asking! Charlotte always had blind faith in people and many a time it’s backfired on her! After what happened to her in New York–!” 

She stops herself then, Molly piqued by the last few words, but Vagatha is quick to silence herself of any prohibited revelations. 

With a deep breath, she continues with calmer words, voice rigid. “...I can _never_ trust Mr. Griffiths. Even though he’s my boss, I just can’t trust him…”

Molly watches silently, needing to hear Vagatha’s true thoughts. 

“Molly, I believe you when you said you would not have known. I mean, you’ve met him!” She sighs, lowering her head. “Or maybe that’s just me. _Everyone_ thinks it’s just me! Look, just let me vent…”

“I’m listening.”

She threads her fingers under her nose, an invisible gravity weighing her shoulders when she releases a sigh professing years of secret torment. “Ever since he started working here, I’ve had this pit in my stomach….”

She told her about Baton Rouge and losing Charlotte in the crowd of people on the night of Mardi Gras. How she went back to one of the estate summer homes there to warn the king when she couldn’t find her. In a rage, the king locked her in her quarters until they could find her. Vagatha was beside herself, weeping for over an hour, agonized by every second no word was known of Charlotte’s wellbeing. 

When she heard a knock on her door, she flew over when she heard Charlotte call out. She was safe! Vagatha’s door was unlocked and she flung her arms around the young princess. 

_“Charlotte! Charlotte!! Oh cariña, lo siento mucho, mi hija hermosa!”_ she wept!

The young girl held her just as tight, beside herself with relief. “It’s okay, Vaggie! Mr. Griffiths saved me!”

Vagatha looked up, and met the amber gaze of a smiling man who immediately put her on edge, until Charlotte ran up to him and took him by the hand. The man chuckled politely when he was led to greet her.

_“This is my chambermaid, Vaggie! Vaggie, this is Mr. Griffiths!”_

“When I first met him, I was just so thankful to him for returning Charlotte to us. But the longer I Iooked at him, the more unsettled I felt. It was barely noticeable at first, because he was wearing red that day, but I recognized he had blood on him, but he…didn’t pay any attention. Or, if I had to state it more accurately, he treated it as if it was nothing, like a minor inconvenience. As if such a thing could be so trivial! Wherever that blood came from, I know it wasn’t his!”

Molly shakes off a chill.

“The next morning, I was suddenly informed he would be the household’s butler.”

Her one eye is lost in time, statuesque in its foreboding.

“Since then, I’ve been assailed by this presence. Like a shadow lingering in the house. The problem is that I’m always the only one who felt like this. It’s always been like that from the beginning, ever since he started to work here! It’s been so long, that I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe I’m the one who has _a few screws loose_!” 

Allayed by Vagatha’s admission, Molly can only sit quietly. She knows how it feels, to be the only one who can see when someone does not always have the best intentions. The mafia, after all, wears the faces of men and women who work day to day jobs, and are just as abundant amongst the public as they are underground. They wear the same clothes, wear the same smiles, drink the same coffee.

“You know, Vaggie, you don’t have to feel like that anymore.”

The chambermaid doesn’t look up, prompting Molly to clarify her meaning.

“I’m not saying that out of pity. I don’t trust him either.”

Vaggie quickly looks up then. Molly knows then just how lonely she’s been in her suspicions, by that single flicker of cautious hope. “You don’t?”

The twin shakes her head. “No, I don’t.”

“...Why don’t you?”

Yet, as much as Molly wishes to clarify, she has already said too much. While she’s glad to give Vagatha support, she doesn’t trust herself to stay silent were she to pry. Taking up her teacup, she stands from the table. 

“I just don’t. The guy’s just _hinky_. Look, I’m tired, so I’m gonna go to bed now, but will you do me a favor?”

If Vagatha were to ask her to stay, she probably would not be able to say no. Her silence assuages her as she walks away, careful with her tea cup, but she can feel her earthen stare from the table. Molly turns at the door, face stern behind her shoulder. 

“Don’t go to sleep until Charlie comes home. Please? Will you do that for me?”

_________________________________

What a victorious night!

An electrified tingle buzzes the skin, his toes tapping to the rhythmic storm beating from the tips of his ears to the heels of his feet! Good food, good _giggle water_ , and a dazzling _canary_ of a princess who brought the house down with the _bearcat_ he knew was locked away inside of her! 

That _moxie!_ That fire! That **passion**! 

If he had known all it had to take was a trip to Hollywood would refamiliarize Charlotte to her underlying intensity _,_ he would have stolen her away weeks ago! She’s laughing, absolutely overflowing with radiance as he watches her from the corner of his eye staring happily at her new bouquet of roses! A warmth plants in his chest and a strange little tingle shivers at the base of his stomach. 

A reaction he’s become quite accustomed to as of late when Charlotte’s involved, curiously. 

They drive from the Montmartre Cafe, escaping from the flashes and the buzzing _newshounds_. Even though they meant to leave before the winners could be announced, the crowd of stars were so wild to meet the pair in person, they were delayed long enough until the announcements. Charlotte was stunned, intimidated by the applause she raised to the multiple starlets returned to her, and what a delightful creature she was to take refuge to his side.

Questions bombarded them from each side, entrapping them until their ears were invaded by incoherent jargon! He rolls his eyes. In the years he was a radio host, that is the one thing he does not miss. The endless questions, the blinding cameras, and his privacy’s violation.

Their salvation? The _flapper’s_ announcement! 

**_“If we can have your attention, please!! Ladies and gentlemen! Please take your seats, and give a large round of applause to our winners! The Radio Demon, Alastor Gustave Griffiths and Princess Charlotte Magne!!”_ **

_“We won!?” Charlotte balks, and Alastor’s laughter lilts._

_“Well, of course, darling! Did you think otherwise?”_

_But as soon as he heard the roar of reporters storming their way through the stars, Alastor pondered whether he should have waited until the bodyguards escorted them out of the building to threaten Mimzy; but considering her reaction was a long overdue one, he was glad to indulge a few vultures._

_In moments they are surrounded, notepads, overlapping shouts, nosy paparazzi pushing their way to catch a glimpse of the princess and former radio host._

_“Where have you been all this time, Mr. Griffiths?”_

_“Are you and the princess seeing each other?”_

_“Are we to expect wedding bells in the future?”_

_“Princess Charlotte, give us an encore! You thinkin’ of enterin’ showbiz? Ya got the goods, doll!”_

_The chaos reawakens an old instinct, one he quickly familiarizes himself from the times he too had been hounded by these cretins during his glory days! He cuts through the noise, snatching an unsuspecting Charlotte by the hand._

_“Trust me, darling!” He repeats, the words an echo of their dance whispering across her cheek before he addresses the reporters! “Sorry to cut this short, gentlemen, but we need to make ourselves scarce! You could say we need to make a ‘royal exit’!”_

_A graceless ‘yelp’ shrieks from her lips by the pivot of his foot and a sweep under her legs._

_“Alastor?! WhaaaaAAAGH!!” Gathered in his arms, they amscray. What a fine mess, but far from annoying when they escape in a gale of laughter from the exuberant butler!_

_“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!” Sounds the madmen through the cafe walls. Leaving with the title — and the lovely princess in his arms — he barks a few orders to the valet, and his automobile was retrieved in minutes._

He chuckles softly, resting his head on his knuckles as he watches the street painted under the lamplights stroke, each neon glory shining brighter than ever before. However tonight beheld more than for the butler, even though the main event was for Charlotte’s gain. 

Mimzy’s horror flashes through his mind!

He’s careful to conceal his laughter. A place among the _Big Cheeses_ on the Monmarte’s Wall of Fame paled to the prize of Mimzy’s fear! The look on her face was simply _priceless!_

She won’t know his favorite tools in the dungeons, unfortunately, but the satisfaction in the education of the _tomato’s_ affairs had been deliciously entertaining. To think he’s been ignoring the songbird so vigilantly! He has years worth of blackmail to make up for! All the years he had put her out of his mind came back with a flourish, and with it, the underlying vengeance for her transgression which forced their engagement’s nullification _._ Now that this past decade has given him a cooler head and ironfast patience, he feels the true vindication to know revenge, true to term _,_ is best served cold.

_Dear Mimzy, what a gas you are! A quick death wouldn’t do for you! Not in the slightest! Humiliation, though? All the more fitting! Goodness, who would think to use a piece of fabric meant to wipe your nose as a badge of high society? The audacity of it!_

Alastor titters! Oh, _but how_! That piece of silk set in motion the game to an even bigger event. To think he envisioned the game to start off so small! Has he lost his touch? Well, in a short time, he’ll sharpen the edge once everything is in order. Once Mimzy relays the message, all that’s needed is for him to prepare the forest. 

And soon, he’ll _get the drop on_ that pesky employer of his. 

He licks his lips as the tingle of anticipation resurfaces. He still feels the rush, the surge of delight from the horror he planted in the piteous fools at the previous meeting in Hollywood. When he killed that wretched fool in front the crew responsible for the late queen’s _picture show._ He squeezes the steering wheel. 

His reminisce is short-lived, however, when the darling beside him coerces his full attention with the melody of her voice.

“Alastor?”

Sight rises to her, then returns to the road, his hand dropping from his temple. Looking at her seems blinding now, her soft features a whisper of angelic light in the shadows of the undeserving world. New York’s little doldrums have dispelled, and the beam in her eyes frolic with an impartiality he knows from a year ago. If he weren't currently driving, he would bask in her incandescence.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“Why did you never tell me who you really were?”

He pauses, mulling over the question until an impish glimmer appears in his eye. “You _do_ know who I really am.” 

Her adorable frown coaxes a laugh. “You know what I mean!”

“I do!” He faces her fully, smug.

Mindless fingers pick at the bouquet of rose petals between her nails, and Alastor imagines the sweet-smelling perfume on her skin with each kiss exchanged on her knuckles. His eyes narrow. 

“So, why did you never tell me until now that you were the Radio Demon?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, and he’s surprised when she sits up from her seat, impassioned. 

“Alastor!” 

A defensive hand rises! “Relax, kitten! I was going to answer. I just didn’t know where to start. It’s been a very long time ever since I worked on the radio. That’s a lot of ground to cover.”

She watches him expectantly, rearing those beautiful orbs like a clap of black thunder. 

_Goodness, this woman. Why is it as of late I seem to be unable to refuse you?_

He chuckles, waving. “...Well, my dear, that’s a part of my life I left behind. I didn’t tell you out of any real reason other than it was no longer something I took part in.”

She remains unconvinced. “Still, that’s quite a thing to leave behind. I mean, I always thought you sounded like a radio host, but I could not have guessed you were the actual host of _The Radio Demon’s Voodoo House.”_

A swell of pride fills his chest. “You used to listen to my broadcast?”

She bites her lip, shyly looking away. _Oh, dear! This is going to be terribly awkward._ “No, I didn’t…”

His chest collapses, completely shocked! Even his smile slackens! She’s always shown to be an avid listener whenever he delights on any ramble with exaggerated theatrics!

“...But dad did.” A soft twinkle of onyx rises between the golden downpour, a molten gold cascade hiding the bottomless curiosity. _“_ …Promise not to _get_ _lathered_?”

He scoffs. “Think nothing of the sort my dear, but I’m dying with curiosity! I always assumed you enjoyed listening to the radio!"

“I do _now,_ but at the time, _well_ …” She plucks a petal from one of the roses, finger soft on the silken surface. “I only heard a full show once. I was a little kid, so it gave me the _heebie-jeebies_!”

He laughs out loud, truly surprised! His belle, afraid of him? Shy, certainly. Easily flustered, mayhaps, but afraid? “So, I scared you?”

“Yes, you did!” She yaps, cheeks overheating from his teasing! Oh, why does she feel like she’s revealed the most awful sin!? She couldn’t connect the dots of why he sounded so much like that voice she once feared! Why is that so embarrassing to her? “But I was a child! You can’t blame a child for fearing ghost stories! Every time you came on the radio, I would go hide under the blankets! A few times, I hid under the bed with my dolls!” 

“Ah, a doll hiding with her dolls!”

“Oh, stop!”

“May I safely assume you’ve overcome your fear of me?”

“Of course!”

“Well, darling, that’s a swell achievement! Overcoming fear is like overcoming eggs!”

She blanches. “Huh?” 

“You either beat it or crack into pieces!” He guffaws!

“Alastor!!”

The automobile shakes from his powerful laughter coupled along her giggles, a tiny sound to his boisterous volume trapped in the tiny space until it rings with joy!

Her fingers press tight to the little petal in her titters, each soft stroke a new layer of pink on her fingers. The rouge catches in the light like a smeared dab of blood, attracting the butler’s sight until his laughter falls to deep contemplation. Tongue dampening the sudden dryness in his throat, he licks his lips.

As soon as she could speak, she gasps her next words! “As I walked away, I would always hear,” She puffs out her chest, voice deepened when she opens her arms in a dramatic flair, “ _‘I’ll be your host, the Radio Demon himself’_!” 

He’s surprised at her enthusiastic impersonation, the radiance of her spirit still in full bloom when she tries to mimic his transcontinental accent. Save for her higher pitched voice and softer features, he’s impressed! 

_Ah, how I missed you..._

“But you know, I never heard your full name.” A finger ponders on her lip. “Or maybe I just blocked it out, but I do remember hearing ‘Al’.” She looks over, “I wonder if I call you ‘Al’ because of that.”

“‘Al’ is a common nickname, darling. Even for a name as unique as ‘Alastor’," he returns.

“Yes, but you have a very distinct voice! I’m still so mad at myself for not making the connection!”

“Well, it’s perfectly reasonable!” 

But Charlotte is far from finished! “What’s more astonishing is dad never told me anything! He loved listening to your radio show, so for him not to tell me anything is absolute _criminal!”_

Alastor peers at her from the corner of his eye, amusement coloring his leer. 

_That’s because I asked him not to say anything._

He spares another glance at the color between her fingers, his movements again acting without permission. Switching hands on the wheel, he takes her hand, to which she looks up in surprise. The sparkle of inquisitiveness spurs the continuous tremble in his sternum. The scent of roses twines through her fingers when he pulls them to his lips, bringing a kiss to her knuckles. The plush white of her skin is soft, just like the petal caught between their hands. He looks at her beneath his lashes, grin risen at her parted lips and reddened features. 

How he loves the scent of roses in her skin, the color of blood hued across her skin, the reactions a single touch can generate. He’s had suspicions from each reaction as of late. Her return came with an unusual alteration to her character, and oh, how each display entices him to agitate these new shifts within his darling belle. With every whisper, the wind of his breath lit her cheeks aflame. Every touch sets her spirit aglow, and he can almost fall into her wide gaze each time she stares with a silent longing.

_How easy it is to read you, my darling princess._

Once, he recalls when she was but a child of fourteen, she reacted similarly to every word, song, and kiss to her knuckles. He found her childish affections hilarious, and openly admitted to it with a bark of boisterous laughter. She ran away from him, weeping in her room for hours, and he simply went back to his duties with a skip to his step.

In the passing years he’s never acknowledged how she changed until she returned from New York as a woman, flummoxing him to wonder whatever happened to her pudgy face and short height. When she moves, he is attentive to the ample contours of her curves. When she sings, he stills to wonder if she is the siren that pirates warn to beware. Her feminine wiles sing for his recognition in every glance, every chime of laughter, each subtle touch.

The realization is heady once he realizes he’s been answering her wordless frolics, not one inspiring rejection. He’s been accommodating her voiceless beckons. All evening, he realizes, he’s been indulging in these strange attentions!

On the first car ride, he was quick to offer his condolences and rewarded her patience with the revelation of his mother’s previous illness. King Lucifer doesn’t know why he left for those two weeks!

At the stage, when they stood on the bow of the steamboat, her perfume tempted him to inhale at the junction between her clavicle, to delve his nose deep in her radiant tresses. Her name whispered from his lips, a plea until he realized his traitorous thoughts. 

The contest and her invasive touch cushioning his lips under her seeking fingers. How he _shook_ with an unknown need, and he almost lost himself to the sway of careless pining. He can still feel the fervor of her breaths against his lips.

 _This is…troubling._ “I ask your forgiveness...”

“H-Huh?” She blinks, awakening from her lovelorn stupor, features quirking. “Why? There’s nothing to forgive…”

“Au contraire, ma chérie.” He looks out to the road again, lowering their hands until they settle on the seat between them. “I frightened you as a child, and I’ve kept it a secret from you all this time. That would be two misdemeanors!” His smirk remains coy, even though his gaze remains on the road.

 _This man, ever the gentleman._ She sighs, openly staring.

“Alastor…” She squeezes back his hand, unwilling to release him. “It’s _Jake_ . All _berries_ . I’m happy that you told me at all _._ Maybe the way you told me was a little bit overdramatic, but then,” She giggles at the impish pride outstretched across his face “…I love that about you.”

She tenses, afraid her admission is too obvious. But his hand remains around hers. Slowly, she relaxes, silently praying he does not let go. 

_I love everything about you…_

Even though they danced their last step, she feels by letting go, the masquerade will end. When would they start dancing again? Would they ever dance again, before she needs to go back to her father and fight for her dream’s reality? But then, he did say if she married, he would give his full support. If she were to tell him there is someone she has in mind…?

No, she shouldn’t hope like that. There’s a snowball’s chance in hell her father would approve, and an even lesser chance Alastor would reciprocate.

She turns her hand in his, until the petal sits between both of their palms, squeezing back firmly.

Even though he may not see her as she sees him, she doesn’t want to let go.

And Alastor, who simply allows her to return the gesture, stares at the road with a brand new realization.

He’s _concerned._

He bore no reaction when she admitted to loving his attributes. Truly, he has to wonder who doesn’t love the way he carries himself, but from her lips the strange sensations within him seem to…weaken him. His stomach flutters, and the palpitations in his heart leave him breathless. He can only recall one other moment in which his body reacted without any prompting.

When he watched her sleep on the night her mother passed.

_What is it you do to me, my dear?_

_________________________________

Something presses into her chest when the manor comes into view, a lightless albatross looming as dark as the black windows patterned across the colossal architecture. The guards making their rounds recognize the majordomo and their princess once they step out of the car, albeit, confused to see the two major figures of the household returning from a late night out. Alastor gives a nod as they continue, the guards leaving them as they traverse to the labyrinthe behind the house. They remain apart, Charlotte cradling the flowers in one hand as the other dangles near Alastor’s. Heeled steps enter the floral pathways.

Their footsteps slow simultaneously once the stairs to the balcony come into view, even though she has not spoken of the seconds she mourns, lost as the first step comes closer.

The night’s end approaches as soon as she faces her door. 

“Alastor…?”

“Hm?” 

“I want to ask you something.” She pauses, rethinking herself before she continues. She wants to ask about Mimzy, specifically the reason why their engagement broke apart. Recollecting Alastor’s reaction to the singer’s reminder of their previous relationship, she decides against her overflowing curiosity.

The hostility between them still tapers in her mind, like kindling still hot from undying embers.

“Do you perhaps…have recordings of your broadcasts?”

Surprised, a cinnamon eyebrow jumps. “Tucked in some forgotten cave in my closet, possibly. Why do you ask?”

He tilts his head, and the quiver in her chest strengthens. “I want to hear them.” 

He sighs a breathless chuckle, and for a moment, she’s forgotten the time disappearing with every step.

“Darling, you don’t have to listen for my sake–”

“You misunderstand.” She faces him earnestly. “I want to listen to them for myself because it’s you.”

He stares. “Oh? Is that all?” Doubtful, his hands tuck into his pockets with a leer. “Still sounds like you’re simply–”

“Alastor Gustave Griffiths!”

“Princess.” He stands erect, still unsure how to react when she says his full name. 

She sternly holds to her bouquet with a straightened stance. She’s remarkable when her ferocity appears, just as remarkable when her shyness emerges. Each facet a delight of diamonds sparkling under the sun. 

“Don’t misconstrue my request as one of a guilty conscience. I want to listen to them because I **want** to. I love your stories. I love your ability to _tell_ stories, and now that I know the ‘demon’ behind the radio and found him to be a good, kind, and noble man, it would do me the greatest honor if you would allow me to listen to the radio show you yourself hosted.”

He smirks, his arms up in an exaggerated form of wolfish puppetry, attempting to frighten her in the darkness. “...Even though they are terrifying ghost stories?”

“I’m not a child anymore!” She stands her ground, placing her hand to her hip. “Besides, I want to hear them because it’s _you,_ Alastor.” She picks at another petal on her bouquet, serving as an anchor point as she dares herself to be honest. “...I want to know every little thing about you. Your past as a radio host. Your mother. Your childhood, even the bad things.” Mimzy again passes through her mind. 

“... You might be asking a bit much of me.” 

She tilts her head curiously. “That’s not my intention.”

Alastor breathes deeply, looking up to the starless sky, contemplative. “There are some things to my past that I left behind for a reason, darling. To dig up some of those things seems a little moot if I meant to escape them.”

The bouquet crinkles in hand, a single inhale filling her nostrils with the sweetness of plucked roses. She looks up as well, catching the sight of two fireflies dancing above them. While the moon is bright, silencing the light of the stars, the fireflies always tantalize her eyes. As a child, she thought they were stars before it was explained to her they were bugs, but the magic of their light remains. 

Though he is no longer a radio host, the magic of his voice reawakened something she believed she lost in that dreaded city.

“What you did for me tonight inspired me, Alastor.” Charlotte feels him look at her, but she keeps her eyes on those fireflies. “I have a dream I wish to tell the entire world, but when I was in New York, I was laughed at for it. Seviathan laughed at me for it…”

She meets his stare then.

“I’m sure you heard me talk about it with Daddy, right?”

He nods. “A rehabilitation center for former criminals, I remember?”

The princess smiles, before sighing. “...Seviathan said I was stupid for it. Daddy said he will only support me if I get married. But I don’t _want_ to marry if it’s only to achieve my dream. Just how cheap is that?” 

She looks at her bouquet then, as though these petals can hold the answers she seeks. “Before mom died, I asked her to talk Daddy out of it. I relied on her because I was too scared to talk to him myself. So you can imagine how much worse it felt when she got sick. It was like my last hope was taken away from me. But after you asked me to run away with you, and took me out on the most magical day I’ve ever had…I feel hopeful again.”

She takes a deep breath, her smile growing with a new purpose. “I’m going to talk to him again, and this time, I won’t be scared. After all, I’ve overcome my fear of _you,_ haven’t I?”

Alastor raises a brow, sighing a small chuckle. 

Charlotte wants to end the secrecy, open up about the troubles she’s known while she was away, and allow herself to freely speak. She wants him to know about her dream, and how much he means to her. Those recordings withhold a piece of a puzzle. She wants to retrieve every little piece, and complete the picture of the man who infiltrated her heart.

“Alastor…”

“Yes, Charlotte?”

She comes before him, until she stands directly below him, uncaring if their proximity is inappropriate. She watches his handsome face look down curiously, his smile now full of thoughts she wishes she can read.

“I can no longer fear you…” She shyly lowers her gaze. “Because you’re the man I admire the most.”

They stand at the foot of the stone stairs, ending their journey. Silence stretches between them, and there is a growing tension in her shoulders. Did she put him in an uncomfortable position? 

“Of course, please don’t feel obli–”

“Charlotte…” 

When she feels his fingers pick up her chin again, her words die on her lips. His finger traces along her cheek, a golden thread tucked behind her ear. She freezes into a pillar. He’s coming near. Nearer! Her logic demands she pull away, stop his approach before he...

 _But he wouldn’t! Would he?_ Her knees knock together, as loud as castanets in her head. 

He’s not pulling away, even when there is no music to dance to, and there is no crowd to perform for. There is no dancing, no singing, nor even playful laughter. Just a loud stillness, and the fragrance of the flowers in the labyrinthe, and his cologne liquefying her senses when all she sees is herself in the mirror of his tawny eyes.

She smells the whiskey in his breath now, pants simultaneous to hers in speed and heaviness, breaths intermingling into a rhythm of desire. Her heart hammers, and her legs shake. They simply stand still, neither moving. The crickets sing, the night alive, and so are her thoughts. 

Alastor himself can’t make sense of it. Only that her desire to reach out to him, her fearlessness, and even how she, unlike so many, openly trusts him so limitlessly, prompts him so near. The fluttering in his stomach progresses, and his hunger reflects in her willing eyes. 

He wants to close the distance. He wants to feel her lips, taste the coppery scent of her skin. Would it be like if he were to kiss the roses he smells on her fingers? Like the metal of blood poured from his victim’s veins? Or like the cappuccino she drank at the cafe? His very core shakes, his mind buzzing for unknown answers if he simply lowers his lips to hers!

So why does he stop, when she is so willing? Her hands wrap against his lapel, the bouquet ignored at their feet. Her fingers place their electric touch to his throat, and his Adam’s apple bobs dryly. He’s only had one drink, yet his mind swims with a drunkenness to know this woman’s flesh. Even his hands have pulled themselves around her waist, and the back of her head, her warmth radiating through her beautiful gown. 

He grits his teeth, breathing in sharply like a man in physical pain. Her perfume coils around his mind, her lips parted, _begging_ him! 

However he knows what will happen if he does.

He knows what’s at stake.

And that’s precisely what gives him the strength to reject his screaming greed.

 _Stop._ He wills himself.

When she jerks back, he realizes he had spoken out loud, her eyes popping open and her form backing away from his arms.

Her radiance is swallowed up, embarrassment wide open when she curls her arms around herself. He doesn’t have the energy to calm her, his hand wearily placed over his face, sliding down from his hot cheeks. The blood still throbs in his head, his hunger reeled in by an enormous sense of willpower. 

He can’t believe when his own knees are shaking. Or that his heart is ready to break through his chest. He is not fearful, but he feels he just ran a marathon, all because of _her._

Whatever he’s been ignoring all this time within him, it’s grown into something _unbearable._

Seeing the way she retreats, head down and hands curled over her chest, he feels the punch in his gut when a brand new shine overcomes her eyes.

The shine of tears.

“Alastor, I’m… I’m so sorry. I– I thought you were…!” She turns quickly, leaping up the steps with a nimble stride, heels clicking on the limestone. 

“Charlotte, I–”

“No! Don’t! I shouldn’t have assumed you would– But it’s–” She breathes in sharply, swallowing. “I know it’s silly, to think you would think of me like that…! Look, please just forget what happened! I had a wonderful time and– Oh!” 

She turns away from him, but his hand snatches out!

“Charlotte, wait!” He grabs her wrist, pulling her to face him! 

“Alastor, please... _”_

“Princess!!”

Immediately, both princess and butler snap their attention to the top of the steps, surprised to see Vagatha staring down widely. Alastor already prepares to explain away the misunderstanding, knowing the _pachuca_ will blame him for Charlotte’s tears. 

Tight fists at her sides, she stomps down in her slippers, teeth bare when she opens her mouth for the expected tirade.

But Charlotte surprises them both, barring her from Alastor with her arms outstretched. 

“Vaggie! He didn’t do anything!” 

The chambermaid would not hear any of it when she grabs Charlotte’s arm and pulls her behind, barring her from the butler!

“Ah! Vaggie?!”

She does not respond, glaring openly at Alastor, teeth bare in great displeasure. Alastor’s smile remains undaunted, politely nodding toward Vagatha in greeting, though his smile tenses, greatly annoyed by the way she pulls Charlotte.

“That was unnecessary, Vagatha.”

"And what you just did was _inappropriate,_ Mr. Griffiths!”

“Vaggie, stop it!” Charlotte asks, trying to yank her hand away, but Vagatha’s compliance ended with their last interaction before this fiasco began.

She turns, her glare so piercing Charlotte, her resistance melts.

“You are going into your room _right now._ I’m going to come for you later. You understand?”

All the happiness she experienced, the joy, the excitement she beheld throughout the evening is suddenly sapped away from her in seconds. With a nod, Charlotte raises her stare to Alastor, softened at the way he looks at her. 

A moment is shared in their silence, and he nods, bidding her goodnight with a soft smile.

“Tomorrow, my dear.”

Though she is embarrassed, Charlotte nods again, before turning away to slip into her room. Vagatha glares down, her fists tight once more. 

“Let’s be clear about one thing, Mr. Griffiths. I don’t know what your game is, but leave Charlotte out of it.”

“What exactly are you accusing me of, Ms. Vagatha? Did you expect me to kidnap our princess and disappear without a trace?” He laughs, grating her nerves. 

She can’t say anything. She can’t accuse him of anything. Charlotte went with him willingly, and there’s nothing against the law about whom the princess chooses to spend her evening with. But everything about Mr. Griffiths feels _left._

Wrong. 

Malicious…

“One of these days, Mr. Griffiths. Whatever you’re hiding, I’m going to expose it.”

Alastor chuckles, amused. “You’re basing I’m hiding something out of _what_ exactly?”

Maybe it wasn’t a thought out answer, but it is her best clue. The day his smile grew jagged on the morning he crushed the China barehanded. There is an underlying demon she _knows_ resides within him. 

What she’s always seen as a sign of his hidden mania.

“That smile.”

She turns her back, leaving him to contemplate the answer as she enters the princess’s quarters and locks the bedroom door. 

He can still see inside, catching a glimpse of Charlotte’s forlorn gaze before Vagatha yanks down the curtains and bars her from his sights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: I Totally forgot to send a shout out to my Cowriter and editor for helping me put this story together, Charlie, and my new editor, FurorNocturna, who also helps me cowrite Celestine!! These gals have been helping me keep this monster of a story organized! Also, check out my Twitter @WifeoftheSoules if you would also like to keep up with the comic including the Alastors of TRSG, Smiling Man by @MuseVlt, and The Taxidermist by @Angelus19!!
> 
> mop - handkerchief
> 
> off the tracks - someone dangerous and has violent tendencies
> 
> Big One - Death
> 
> Nark- blab
> 
> hen coup- beauty parlor
> 
> Newshounds.- reporters
> 
> Taking someone for a ride- Take someone out to kill them
> 
> Wisehead- smarty
> 
> Zilch- nothing
> 
> a few screws loose- crazy
> 
> get up- clothes
> 
> giggle water- alcohol
> 
> Crackjob- psychopath
> 
> canary - singer
> 
> Gumming- idle chatter
> 
> Croak- kill
> 
> Twist- woman
> 
> Dincher - Half-smoked cigarette
> 
> Get the drop on- to kill
> 
> Bearcat- headstrong woman
> 
> Hinky- suspicious
> 
> Nudniks- stupid men
> 
> Big Cheese- someone important


End file.
